Those Left Behind
by Maejones
Summary: "Why aren't you afraid?" Sherlock asks Molly. Molly doesn't know what to think about Sherlock's strange behavior. Is it Moriarty she should fear, someone else entirely, or is the person she should most be concerned about doing her irreparable harm Sherlock Holmes himself? Sherlolly Mystery. Set post HLV.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Molly blinked. Something was off. Her steps stuttered as she made her way across the lab and she came to a halt. The contents of the tray in her hand shifted. One of the vials drunkenly teetered before it leaped from the edge and smashed itself on the floor.

"You should avoid trying to walk and think at the same time, Molly," a deep voice resonated to her right. "Multi-tasking is not your strong suit."

Flames crept up her neck and heated her face as her eyes slid sideways to look at Sherlock. As ever, her heart stumbled when her gaze fell on him. He'd trimmed his hair recently. It was still rakish and overly-long but his curls were more pronounced. Not to mention, the contracted length better exposed his ridiculous cheekbones. He had the kind of beauty that literally stole her breath. She choked on a nervous laugh.

" _Every time. Always."_

He didn't look up from the microscope. He was intently focused on a slide on its stage. She carefully put her tray down on the counter. She was certain now that something wasn't quite right. There was a play going on here. Sherlock had been staring at that same slide for ten minutes.

"I-Is there something particularly . . . interesting about that specimen?" She asked.

Gawd! She wished she could sound more authoritative but looking at Sherlock was like trying to stare directly at the sun.

His brows twitched but his eyes never lifted. "Don't you have a mess to clean up?"

Molly curled her fingers into her palms so tightly that her stubby nails bit into her flesh. Doubt crawled through her mind. She wasn't going to win this one, not if she presented the argument that she _felt_ as if something were wrong, not to a man like Sherlock. She needed something else, a more substantial observation than her unsettled feelings.

She turned and headed towards the broom closet at the far end of the lab. Her cheeks were no longer warm, they were on fire. She supposed she should get used to being dismissed by him but it went against every fiber of her being. A person doesn't become a doctor, stare death in the face every day and regularly deal with socio-, psycho- and other various mental-paths if he or she is a pushover.

However, Sherlock was her Achilles' heel. Somehow, he could completely neutralize her staunchly feminist, independent and socially rebellious self when her inclination would otherwise be to bubble over and scald everything within a two-mile radius. She reached the closet and threw open the door with a huff. She waved her hand above her head impatiently until her fingers intertwined with the light pull. She gave it a yank and was blinded by the flare of the overhead bulb.

"Jesus, that's bright," she mumbled.

Another bulb figuratively lit in her brain. She swung around. No, the closet fixture was the same as ever. It was the lab that was darker than usual. Her eyes flew to the ceiling. Every other florescent tube in the dual-lamp assemblies looked burnt out but the criss-crossed pattern was too deliberate to be coincidental. The light from the closet emphasized the incongruity by casting long shadows across the room. How could she have missed this?

Her eyes narrowed at Sherlock. This was his doing, no question, or he would have been stumbling over himself to show off his deduction skills. He had already been seated at his station when she arrived and not uttered a word about the lighting. John was nowhere to be found, a pattern that was on its third day of repetition. She, for her part, had just been too thrilled by his presence and the prospect of being alone with him again to give any of this much thought. He must have counted on that, the affect he had on her, to get away with . . . whatever he was trying to get away with.

Other details jumped out. Sherlock usually sat in the middle of the main lab bench like a king conducting council but instead, he sat nearer the door and made due with an older microscope stationed there. His body was tense, not unlike a Buckingham palace guard and from this angle he was back lit by a lamp shining brightly through the glass of the lab entry door. This caused his hair to look like a shining halo on his head. She gritted her teeth. Some Angel!

She turned back to the closet and rummaged around to bide some time. What was he up to? Was he on drugs? Perhaps he was in withdrawal and the lights hurt his eyes. Her palm twitched as she remembered how much it had stung when she'd slapped him months ago. Then, her eyes fell on the shop vacuum and a smile tugged at her lips. If he were suffering a drug-hangover, his reaction to the apocalyptic sound of the lab's high powered vac would confirm her suspicion.

She made a show of wrangling the vac from the closet and wheeled it across the floor, making sure to hit every uneven tile on her way to the broken vial. She unwrapped an excessive length of power cord and draped it across his station before plugging it into the socket behind him. His head finally snapped up.

"Sorry, Sherlock," she said sweetly, "just be a tick."

His eyes contracted as he looked at her and she could see him working things out. He couldn't prevent the tics that emerged on his face when he was deducing. His nose and lips twitched. His forehead crinkled in such a quick flash that it was like trying to discern an image on a tunnel wall outside a moving subway car. She flitted off just as his lips parted to speak. His words were swallowed up by the roar of the vac as she flicked it on.

She threw a glance back at him and gave a faux apologetic smile as she cleaned. He only glared in return without cringing or wincing. She turned back to her task and the smile dropped off her face. So, it wasn't drugs. Besides annoyance, he was otherwise unaffected. Her mind drifted while she retrieved the remainder of the broken vial and bit of liquid it had held. What else could it be? She shoved a nearby metal table to clean a trail of liquid that had found its way underneath. It made an unholy screech above the cacophony of the shop vac. She glanced back again to see his reaction but he was gone.

Next thing she knew, the shop vac was whining like a collapsing balloon as it lost power. She looked up to see Sherlock hovering over her with one finger pressed down on the power toggle.

"You were finished thirty seconds ago."

Molly stood up as if a rope was pulled taut in her back. "I was just being thorough, that's all."

His eyes looked past her and scanned the lab with a look of boredom. "Indeed."

She sighed and brushed by him to retrieve the vac's cord from its socket. He was decidedly not under the influence of any barbiturates. Perhaps deduction wasn't really her thing. As she looped the cord around her elbow, she gathered the courage to confront him.

"Why are you here, Sherlock?"

Her eyes followed her words and she met his gaze square on.

"Research," he said simply.

"Research? On the liver biopsies of a long time alcoholic? What have you discovered then? A new form of cirrhosis?"

A muscle flecked in his jaw. His eyes widened slightly and scanned back and forth as if searching for a misplaced cellphone. She almost laughed. There he was, Mr. Grinch, trying to think up a lie and think it up quick! She let out a long breath and started wheeling the vac back to its home.

"Come on, Sherlock. I may not be as bright as you, but give me a bit more credit."

She didn't quite make it back to the closet when his voice, low and menacing, rumbled across the lab.

"Why aren't you afraid?"


	2. Chapter 2

Molly paused, letting his words sink in.

 _"Why aren't you afraid?"_

She felt an odd tingle in the pit of her stomach. Instead of answering him straight away, she returned the vacuum to the closet and then stalked back to him. Her insides were churning as she stared up into his face. Suddenly, she was very angry. He was hiding something from her, something he didn't trust her with, and that made her want to spit. At one point, he had trusted her with his life yet their relationship seemed to have regressed in the last few months. The realization of this lanced through her psyche. She scrunched her toes in her shoes.

"Afraid? Afraid of what?" She asked.

He looked down his patrician nose. His chin tilted up and he smoothed his hands over the lapels of his suit. He then tugged each one of his cuffs, shook out his hands and clasped them behind his back. She was mesmerized by every minutiae of movement.

"Four days ago, Moriarty appeared as a puppet on every screen in the UK spouting the phrase, 'Did you miss me?' Yet here you are, flouncing around Bart's as if not a care in the world. Are you so dense as to miss the possible messages conveyed?"

Further insults were headed her way. She braced for them as best she could.

"Oh, please do enlighten me, Sherlock."

He gave his head an almost imperceptible shake and let out a noisy breath. His hands raked through his hair as he paced the lab. So much for his practiced composure! She was momentarily distracted by his perfect arse as his blazer lifted. She shook her head.

 _"For once in your life, girl, focus. You are mad at him."_ She thought.

"Either Moriarty was the proverbial puppet, his strings pulled by someone much more nefarious, or he's alive and has issued a warning that my, erm, puppets are not safe. Either way, Molly Hooper, I believe you are in danger."

Molly's hands flew to her mouth to suppress a hysterical giggle. He stopped pacing and tilted his head at her in disbelief.

"You see, this is what I am talking about. You're touched, Molly. You should be terrified."

She shrugged. "Why? Why? Oh, Sherlock, I am so inconsequential in all of this."

His eyes widened slightly. "What?"

She held up her hands. "No, listen, just listen. Yes, I helped you outwit him a long time ago but I've served my purpose. That was a one-time thing, a one-shot bluff that can never be repeated because I've played my hand and they've seen my cards. I've thought about this, truly I have. I spent a night tossing and turning and wondering if my days were numbered but when I awoke the next morning, I realized I had nothing to fear. My death serves no purpose nor advances any game. The world is not affected by the passing of Molly Hooper save for the inconvenience of Bart's having to find a replacement pathologist. So why would Moriarty, who is most definitely dead by the way or they may as well take away my license, or his puppet master bother?"

Sherlock blinked rapidly a couple times and shook his head. He seemed to be at a loss for words until something sparked within.

"For revenge!"

She smirked. "One doesn't take revenge against a mosquito, Sherlock. They just swat it. There will be no elaborate plans made for me. One moment I'll be walking down the street, the next I will not. That could happen tomorrow or fifty years from now. Death only matters to those who one leaves behind. I have no family to mourn me nor great love to wail at my grave. Thus, I have no one to fear for."

Molly turned and took a breath. After the way things had so spectacularly ended between her and Tom (meatdagger! come on!), she wasn't even sure if he'd sniffle if given the chance. Sherlock must be rubbing off on her though, she had never made such an eloquent speech in all her life. Shite, she could die happy right then not having regretted a single word for a change.

"No one, Molly? Are John and Mary and Gary . . ."

"Greg!"

She peaked over her shoulder to see him roll his eyes.

"Pfft, Greg, and ahem, I-I, not your friends? People who will miss . . . " Sherlock rolled the word around in his mouth as if trying to decide if it were the right one. ". . . you?"

She spun back and smiled brightly. "Oh, yes, for a time, I suppose, but life goes on, doesn't it? John and Mary will take solace in their child, Greg will find distraction in his relationship woes and you, well, y-you will d-delete me. Oh, God, really, Sherlock! If your aim was to make me start feeling sorry for myself then you really have hit the nail on the head."

Her hands started shaking. Regrets, yes, she had a few but the leash on her life had long escaped her grasp. She stepped towards him and wagged a finger in his face.

"But this talk is all distraction, Sherlock Holmes. You are up to something. Why have you disabled so many lights? Why are you sitting so close to the door?"

Molly jerked her head as the light pouring through the lab entry door was interrupted by a passing body. Someone had angled a lamp outside so that anyone coming or going from the lab would be announced by an obvious shadow. Everything crystallized then.

"Wait . . . who are you waiting for? Who are you trying draw here? Damn you! I might not be afraid of death but I'm not okay with you inviting it here."

Sherlock glowered down at her finger a moment. Then he languidly flicked the button on his blazer so that it popped open to reveal a crisp, white shirt. Just as slowly, he reached up towards her hovering apendage. Molly felt his hand clasp around one wrist, then the other, and then in a flurry of movement, she was pressed up against the cabinets by his large frame. Her breath caught as she looked up at him. His eyes were black pools. His head blocked the dim light of the lab so that his face appeared hooded as if he himself was the Angel of Death. A tremor rippled along her nerve endings.

"Good," he murmured.

The thrum of his voice reverberated through every cell in her body. His right hand unclasped from her wrist and trailed down her arm until it half encircled her neck. He pressed his thumb against the hollow at the base of her throat until she just felt the barest restriction of her airway. Another electric jolt shot through her body, a mixture of lust tinged with a little fear.

"Yes," he said huskily, "you should feel more of that."

His thumb pressed a little harder. She swallowed a lump which pushed against his thumb as it went down. Her free hand gripped his forearm to anchor herself. His breath fanned her face, hot and ragged. Heat from his hard body seeped through her layers of clothing. Who knew claustrophobia could be so fucking sexy?

"What if it weren't over quickly, Molly?" He whispered. "What if it took time?"

She wanted to throw her head back and scream, "Yes, bloody, yes!", but she was pinned and there was nowhere for her head to go. She couldn't decide what was more unyielding, the wooden cabinet doors or his muscled frame. A gurgling emitted from her throat.

 _"Oh, crap! So, not a sexy sound!"_ She thought.

He loosened his grip on her other wrist. His fingers interlaced between hers above her head. It was oddly intimate until he squeezed her hand and slammed it back against the cabinet door. It didn't hurt but it gave her a start and she gasped.

"Sherlock!"

He dipped his head until his lips and hers were but a millimeter apart. "Moriarty, his patron, or whoever is behind that message could send anyone to kill you, Molly. You might find yourself at the mercy of some sadistic pervert."

She involuntarily shuddered.

"Good," he growled. "That serpent gnawing at your gut; it's fear, it heightens your senses. Fear could save your life."

He was right and she hated that. No woman who walked alone at night could claim to be completely unaffected by the deep darkness of some back lanes but this, oh, this was different. He was trying to frighten her but every word, every movement seemed laced with eroticism. She couldn't separate the fear he elicited from her desire to lean forward and mash their lips together. She closed her eyes a moment and savored the imprint of his body along her length. Before she could stop herself, a low moan escaped her parted lips.

"Molly Hooper, are you . . . turned on?"

Her eyes flew open to see a look of incredulity on Sherlock's face. She mentally kicked herself and wrenched a curtain closed in her mind. Then she went into self-preservation mode. In his surprise, his hold had slackened. She twisted her hands free and then slammed them into his chest. He stumbled backwards.

"Oh! OH!" She sputtered. "You asshat. Stop, just stop. None of this is about me so stop trying to change the subject. Now tell me what's going on or get the hell out of my lab!"

Sherlock spun, grabbed his jacket and donned it in a flurry. He started towards the door but took only a single step before turning back. He moved slowly towards her, deliberately planting each step until she was backed up against the cabinets again. Her breath hitched. Despite her protestations, all she wanted him to do was crush her into them once more.

"There are times I think you see everything, Molly, but at present you appear to be afflicted by a central scotoma."

With that he turned and exited the lab. She watched him reach towards the hallway ceiling through the frosted glass of the lab door and then the glare of the wayward lamp and his dark figure disappeared.

"Scotoma?" She repeated to herself.

She tapped her finger against her temple as she tried to regain her breath. It took her a moment but a university lesson from med school flashed through her mind and she put two and two together.

"Central scotoma? Blind spot? Oh, that git . . . a blind spot in the middle of my vision!"


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock slowed his steps as he heard the glide of an approaching car. There was only one vehicle in the world that could sneak up on him in that manner. He tilted his head back and looked up into the night sky. A long stream of air ghosted from his lips. He did not feel like dealing with his brother just then. He was still trying to figure out a fifth scenario on how to solve the complication of a certain diminutive pathologist after the first four failed his beta testing.

"Come on then, little brother, these talks of ours are tedious but necessary," Mycroft called to him.

Sherlock half turned and looked at his older brother from over the collar of his jacket. Mycroft stood at the rear of a large, black sedan wearing a Glen Check patterned brown suit that, while immaculate, looked as though it belonged in a previous era.

"Are they? Necessary?" Sherlock drawled.

"Oh, do be serious! Don't act like you don't live for them. I'm not the one in love with the sound of my own voice . . . among, erm . . . other things?"

Sherlock pinched his nose as he tried to avoid taking his brother's bait. He drew in some air, adjusted his jacket and then made his way to the other side of Mycroft's car. He slipped in and they were underway.

"Go on, I have things to do," Sherlock said impatiently.

Mycroft folded his hands over the hook of his umbrella. "Yes, I see you're ever so busy at the lab trying to solve this whole Moriarty business."

Sherlock ignored his barb but glared at him. "That infernal umbrella! You do realize there is no chance of rain for several days, correct? I believe that thing has become a crutch."

Mycroft flicked his fingers dismissively. "At least my crutch is an inanimate object, brother mine. Tell me, how is the lovely Miss Hooper doing? I do so adore her fetching outfits."

" _Dr. Hooper_ is inexplicably fine," Sherlock grumbled. "Although, I wouldn't say her taste in clothing is any worse than yours."

Mycroft's lips drooped as he looked down at his suit. "I'll have you know this ensemble cost three thousand pounds."

Sherlock lifted a brow and scoffed. "Liar! It was discounted by half due to the wonky stitching on the cuff and the fact that _that_ particular pattern has been discontinued."

Mycroft lifted his chin. "Hmmf, well, I have your Belstaff reproduced in China by a woman called Mrs. Liu for two hundred quid!"

"I know," Sherlock replied with a grin as he brushed some dust from one of the sleeves. "I'm the one who gave her the pattern."

Mycroft sighed and drummed his fingers.

"Are we quite done with our requisite sparring?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft was silent a moment as he stared out the window at the passing shops and restaurants. His hands tightened their grasp on the handle of his umbrella. When he returned his gaze to Sherlock, his face had paled.

"Mycroft . . ."

"I'm sorry, b-brother," he replied with a tremor in his voice. "My position is not as secure as it once was. I'm vulnerable. I wanted to give you time to solve our latest conundrum but I had to make a decision."

A prickle of ice crept up Sherlock's spine. "What have you done?"

When Mycroft did not immediately answer, Sherlock snatched the umbrella out of his hands. "What have you done!?"

"I needed help, little brother. I needed answers. I went to the only place I knew I could get them."

"You didn't. Please, Mycroft, tell me you did not let that lunatic off his island!"

Mycroft swallowed. His hands were shaking.

"You don't know what it's like to make these difficult choices, Sherlock."

Sherlock wanted to break his brother's damn umbrella over his head.

"And you don't know what it's like to _execute_ them! Damn, damn, DAMN!" His voice cracked. "I slayed your dragon, brother. Have you so little faith in me?"

Mycroft folded his trembling hands together. "What's done is done."

"Oh, spare me your platitudes. Decisions, bah! At least I know not to make the wrong ones. Stop the car."

Mycroft looked up to his driver in the rear view mirror and nodded. Sherlock wrenched at the door handle and exited the car.

"Where are you going? Back to the lab?" Mycroft called after him.

Sherlock leaned back into the door frame and glowered at his brother. "No, I have something that needs to be _undone_."

"Don't you want to know the answer to our little broadcast mystery? I did at least solve that."

"Don't do me any favors!"

Sherlock pushed off the car and stood up but then stuck his head back in the car a second time.

"Soooo, to clarify, this is not a sick joke? He's back?"

Mycroft stared straight ahead. His umbrella had found its ways back into his embrace.

"Yes, he's back."


	4. Chapter 4

Molly walked quickly through the brisk spring air towards her flat. There was a chill in it that reminded her of the winter. She shivered, only a few more steps and she would be home. Her week had been exhausting. The afternoon shifts she worked this week had been unusually busy. To recuperate, she planned to spend the entire weekend holed up in her flat watching sappy movies, eating crisps and sorting out what to do with her pathetic existence.

Of course, work wasn't entirely to blame for her current state. She'd had trouble sleeping in the days since her confrontation with Sherlock. A flush coursed through her body as once again as she remembered the feel of being so deliciously pressed into the cabinets at work by his taut frame. It had been three days since she had seen him but she felt like his imprint would remain forever etched in the memories of her skin cells like a permanent bruise. How does one move on from a million day dreams brought to life and improved upon in one go? In less than a minute, Sherlock had thoroughly ruined any future physical encounters with anyone else by giving an impossible standard in which to aspire. She couldn't even distance herself from him mentally because he was never really far removed despite his absence. He had obviously returned to the lab to correct his handiwork with the lighting. Even though she didn't see him, his presence lingered. She swore she caught a whiff of his cologne now and again. It was maddening and disheartening and extremely frustrating.

Then again what did her father always say?

 _"Frustration is a form of entertainment, my dear. It's better than being bored."_

Molly rubbed her hands over her face. She gulped down a sob as her father's smiling face replaced visions of Sherlock. Loneliness enveloped her and she had to stop and suck in a few breaths. It was unbearable sometimes, the crushing hopelessness she felt when she thought about how separated she was from the rest of the world. She was adrift again, an abandoned life raft half sunk by the burdens of trying to keep hopes afloat.

A flutter of movement from the lane way caught her eye. She felt her pulse quicken as she imagined any number of Sherlock's predictions coming to life. Then, just as quickly, her anxiousness subsided. A scruffy head looked up from the bin next to the building. She smiled tightly and nodded as her eyes met those of her block's resident bum. How absurd was that, to acknowledge him so casually as if he were any old neighbor? He probably thought her a smug arsehole.

Strangely enough, he lifted his chin and winked, then scuttled back to the far side of the bin. She felt a stab of guilt and impotence. She was inclined to do something for the poor man but what could she accomplish? He was most likely addicted to drugs and beyond her reach. She chewed her lip. Sherlock had been an addict. Was he any more deserving of her assistance? Perhaps all this man needed was a few good slaps to set him right.

She laughed aloud then. She was steps from a warm bed and this poor soul planned to sleep on the street. God, but she had indulged herself in a bit of whinging this night! She knew then what she was going to do and marched upstairs.

* * *

Ten minutes later she approached the bin in the lane way with an armful of goodwill and trepidation wondering if she'd gone completely crackers. What was she thinking? She knew she shouldn't get involved, well logically anyways, but something about the cheeky grin the homeless man had given her earlier compelled her to act. She hoped the fellow was still there. Her eyes scanned the far side of the dumpster and saw something move in the dark. She grinned and then started whistling conspicuously. The movement halted.

The bin creaked as she lifted the heavy lid.

"I can't believe I've kept this ugly throw so long!" She exclaimed. "And these crisps are set to expire next week. Good riddance!"

She tossed the blanket and crisps into the bin along with a bottle of water and let the lid slam down noisily. With her heart pounding, she scurried away around the corner of her building. When she peaked back, she saw someone raising the lid of the dumpster and smiled. Her gesture wasn't much, but it was a far sight better than doing nothing.

Molly turned to skip back to her building but slammed straight into someone. She staggered backwards.

"Ack!"

Just before she toppled over, someone caught her wrist and steadied her on her feet.

"What the hell are you doing, Molly?" A familiar baritone asked.

She looked up into his shadowed face. At night, his skin was as pale as the moon. He was imperfect perfection and his visage belonged in a garden somewhere, a timeless marble Adonis among the topiaries.

"Sh-Sherlock, Jesus Christ! N-nothing. Just tossing a few things in the bin."

He had that look on his face, that you-are-utterly-ridiculous face. Her cheeks tingled with heat.

"It's 10 o'clock at night, could it not have waited until the morning?"

She shrugged and pulled away from his grasp. She tried to look him in the eye but couldn't lift her gaze. She glanced down the lane way. Her vagrant was nowhere to be found. She let out a breath.

"No, it couldn't wait. I had a compulsion that needed a fix."

Sherlock chuckled. "Careful, Molly, those are the words of an addict."

"You would know," she muttered.

Sherlock's gait stiffened. She strode quickly in front of him and put up her hand up against his chest to halt his stride.

"D-Don't listen to me, Sherlock, please. I'm in a terribly melancholy mood. That was uncalled for and I'm sorry. F-forgive me."

His fingers lightly came to rest on the back of her hand. "There is nothing to forgive, Molly. It's just, when you speak it is truth I hear and truth is so much harder to process that fact."

Sherlock's thumb gently stroked the back of her hand. He seemed lost in thought a moment. Then he surfaced from his musings like a grey whale from a deep dive. He jerked his hand away and stepped back as if singed by their contact. Molly's heart constricted in her chest. The ground felt like it had dropped out from under her feet. She could never get used to his brand of rejection no matter how frequent the experience. So, instead of justifying and dismissing his rebuff as a quirk of his personality, this time she just absorbed the blow.

She swallowed. "I suppose you need a place to hide out then. That's why you're here."

Sherlock blinked a couple times then nodded slowly. "Yeees. Yes, would that be . . . alright?"

Molly laughed. "Oh, you know it is, Sherlock. You can always have me, I mean, no! You're always w-welcome that is. Let me just tidy my room a bit in case I have some knickers lying about or something. Oh, bollocks!"

Molly slapped a hand over her mouth. One corner of Sherlock's lips twitched up and he gestured for her to precede him. She led the way into her building with a shake of her head. She was prone to these bouts of verbal diarrhea in his presence. No wonder he thought her too ridiculous for anything beyond the most casual of relationships. If he ever did consider a romantic partner, why would he choose a wardrobe challenged spinster with a proclivity for inane discourse?

Stepping into her apartment with Sherlock at her heels was always a strange experience. He carried with him an energy which completely changed the look and feel of her flat. The space became smaller somehow and the atmosphere stifling. Memories bombarded her, the last time he was here he'd caused the blowout and eventual deflation of her relationship with Tom.

"Ye-oooow!"

Of course, that made no difference to Toby. In an instant, her small calico snaked himself around Sherlock's legs. Sherlock doffed his jacket and blazer and then squatted down to stroke the affectionate feline who proceeded to mewl and cry as if being reunited with a long lost love.

"Greetings, Tobias Hooper, yes, I do apologize. It's been a long time."

Molly repressed a smile as she slipped out of her jacket and squeezed by the pair into her living room. In a reckless instant, she fished her phone from her pocket and snapped a picture. Sherlock looked up with a frown.

"You invite trouble, Ms. Hooper."

She clutched her phone to her chest. "I-I think it's too late to rescind my invitation. Trouble has already arrived."

He stood up and raised his brows. She clenched her teeth. She was terrible at flirting, why did she even try? His eyes darted about, as if he were cataloging every detail of her flat. Then his intense focus reclaimed her as its primary target.

"Give me your phone," he said as he moved towards her.

She shook her head and stepped back.

"Molly," he said, his voice saturated with admonition.

She shrieked as he leaped into action and then took off with him hot on her trail. She realized the moment she ran into her galley kitchen she had made a mistake. There was even less room to navigate this space let alone evade Sherlock. In desperation she grabbed a spatula and waved it at him as he blocked her only avenue of escape.

"Back! Stay back, you lout! You will not delete the only photo I possess of you."

The moment she said that, she wished she could take it back. His lips pressed together in a thin line. A wayward curl fell over his forehead. Like her, he was panting. His left eye twitched. He stepped towards her with intent and his pale green eyes flashed. She chewed her lip. What had she gotten herself into?

She squinted and swatted the spatula at him. "I'm warning you, Sherlock! This will hurt far worse than my hand!"

He rolled his eyes. "Pfft, please."

Of course, there truly was little to fear from Molly Hooper armed with a kitchen utensil. In a heartbeat, Sherlock knocked the flipper from her grasp, twisted her arm behind her back and held her tightly against his hip. He used his free hand to pluck her phone from her grip and set about trying to unlock it.

She glared up at his profile and beat his chest weakly. "You are such a b-beast!"

"Molly, there are innumerable reasons that picture should not exist. The least of which it will harm my reputation . . ."

"And the worst?" She asked breathlessly.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye but did not turn his face fully in her direction. His vice-like grip tightened around her waist and pressed her pretzeled arm more firmly against the hollow of her back. Her hand stilled on his chest. The fabric of his dove grey shirt felt decadently smooth under her fingertips. She bit her lip again. She feared she would leave a sweaty imprint.

"There is a phrase I find extremely trite yet apt, Molly. That is, _'a picture says a thousand words'_ ," he murmured. "In this case, your photo says only one thing yet repeats it over and over, a most dangerous term."

She took a breath to try to steady the hammering of her heart. "What i-is that?"

He angled his head and looked down at her through hooded eyes.

"Sentiment."


	5. Chapter 5

Molly's face scrunched up in confusion at Sherlock's explanation. "Sentiment? For a c-cat? W-why is that dangerous?"

Sherlock's lips parted in surprise and then a frown furrowed his brow. Next thing Molly knew, she was spun away from him with her cell returned to her grasp. She peered down at her phone, the lock screen was still in place. Odd.

"I'm beginning to think your ocular degradation is willful, Hooper."

Molly followed Sherlock out of the kitchen. There was that reference to her vision again. A thread pulled at the back of her mind, it tugged at something very deep within the recesses of her subconscious. Something primal, yet familiar.

"Sherlock . . ."

"Maaaaoooow!"

Toby's mewl drowned out her voice. She watched in frustration as Sherlock bent and scooped up Toby who lovingly head-butted his chin. He stood up with her cat cradled against his shoulder. Toby's self-satisfied purring was as loud as a lorry engine with a knock.

"I would like to retire," Sherlock said simply. "I also require the assistance of your feline."

"Toby? Why?"

"He is a rather intelligent creature. Sometimes I would rather have Toby's help than that of the whole detective force in London."

Molly nodded absentmindedly. No one moved for several seconds. The whole situation was absurd, she realized. She had been completely displaced in her own home. Another moment passed before Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Ahem, ah, you had mentioned a need for some reconnaissance to ascertain your, erm, undergarment situation."

Molly cast her eyes down and groaned. Her mortification knew no bounds.

"I- um, yes. Excuse me."

She scurried past the pair of them down the narrow hall of her flat to her room. Although there had been a discussion at one point and they had agreed, she still did not completely understand why Sherlock preferred her room to the spare. They were, in fact, almost mirrors of each other with equal access to the bath at the end of the hall. Both contained a double bed beneath a lone drafty window but her room was of course, more cluttered. He had mentioned he preferred the space. However, there was only an extra width of foot or so but that could be completely negated if her additional furnishings were taken into account.

Just as she suspected, a pair of bright pink knickers adorned the top of a pile of soiled clothing next to her bed. She scooped the garments up, stuffed them into her laundry basket and closed the flap.

"Finished?" She heard from the doorway.

She spun around as Sherlock strolled into her room. He let go of Toby who bounced to the floor and then hopped up onto the top of his cat tower.

"I-ah, just let me change the bedding."

He waved his hand. "No need, I probably won't sleep."

Molly shook her head and proceeded to her wardrobe. Sherlock stepped quickly in front of her and held his hand against the doors.

"I said, no need."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Are you sure? You seemed to have an insatiable need one evening you were here."

That had, in fact, been the fateful night of Tom's impromptu bachelor party. Molly had allowed Sherlock to stay that night because Tom was supposed to be out until the wee hours of the morning and then crash at a hotel downtown. However, at three am Tom had let himself in and then climbed into bed with Sherlock. Hearing a commotion, Molly had rushed from the bathroom in nothing but one of her over sized university tees and a pair of pale blue lace panties. When she flicked the light on, Sherlock was on one side of the bed practically naked, just his hips swaddled with one of her bed sheets. Tom was opposite him, stripped down to his shorts.

Molly had just stood at the doorway with her hand covering her mouth. Her first instinct was to burst into laughter but she restrained herself.

"Tom, oh, bother! I can explain. It's not what it looks like."

Tom had turned his face towards her and teetered. She knew instantly he was sauced.

"Whaz go-o-ing on? Molly, are you two seerz-ly fucking? In front of my back? Seerz-ly?"

She looked to Sherlock for help with her denial but he was stone-faced. "N-no, of course not."

Tom stumbled around the bed towards Molly. Sherlock stepped in front of him.

"Why is heee naked then, in yer bed?"

Tom poked Sherlock in the chest. "Get out've my way, you big bloody git."

"No."

"Tom, he just stays here occasionally. It's fine, we're friends."

Tom scuttled with Sherlock then, his hands flailing as he tried to slap at him. In less than a millisecond, he was pinned to the mattress with his arm twisted behind his back. Sherlock replaced his arm with his knee to hold him down and readjusted his drooping sheet.

"If you value your limp spine at all, you will not move," Sherlock warned menacingly.

Tom stilled. "Friends, ha! You're freakz! Both of you, yer freakz. You deserve each-udder. I knew this wuzn't gonna work, Molly. I knew it. My boys knew it, they told me. No nice girl would do what you do. Cuttin' up corpses all day long. What kind've Mum would you be? Fucking cryptkeeper! Lemme up. Let me up!"

Molly's face had lost all its blood then. She could forgive Tom for his mistaken appraisal and even uttering some slurs in anger. This situation didn't look good no matter which way you cut it but she could not forgive him for those final words. One look at Sherlock and it was done. Tom was hauled off towards the entry to her flat and then shoved into the hall. Molly scooped his clothes and threw them at his feet.

"Actually, you're one hundred percent right, Tom. I am fucking Sherlock Holmes. I couldn't resist, you see. His cock is so much bigger than yours."

She slammed the door in the face of a dumbfounded Tom. Sherlock lifted one brow as she passed by him. She held up her hand.

"Not a word. I'm entitled to that."

Sherlock had only grinned. "I suppose it's better than you cheating on him with someone less endowed."

* * *

Molly snapped back to the present with a jolt. Sherlock stood before her but he had said something quite different. "What did you just say?"

"I said, I apologize for my part in your breakup with Tom. I am . . . sorry? . . . that your feelings were hurt."

She looked at him with a critical eye. He was (maybe) sorry for her hurt feelings but not for their breakup. She felt the tug of that thread again- the one trying to uncover an explanation for his behavior. The longer she looked at him, the more she noticed small signs. He was making a concerted effort to control his breathing, his chest rose and swelled with each draw of air. His lips were a hair's breadth apart. She shifted towards him. He flinched and held his breath. Normally, that would be her cue to back off but a small voice told her to repeat her experiment.

She stepped towards him again. He stood firm but dropped his chin down to get a better look. She was so close then she could see a lone fleck of amber in his left eye. His face softened until he looked rather boyish but his body remained on alert. She felt as if she were trying to approach Toby on a cat-nip bender. As carefully as she could, she stood up on her tip-toes until their faces were scant centimeters apart.

"I'm going to kiss you, Sherlock."

When he didn't swan away, she placed her hands on either side of his shoulders and pressed her mouth gently against his. His lips were deliciously supple and smooth and oh, so wickedly hot. She held back a moan. Emboldened, she parted her lips, felt a frisson of energy pulse along very one of her nerve fibers and then, needing more, moved them tentatively. When Sherlock didn't respond, she pulled back only to feel what she thought were his lips chasing after hers.

Then, in unison, both their cell phones jingled in response to incoming messages. They sprang apart. Sherlock stumbled back, tripping over a wayward shoe. He blinked at her a couple times then swallowed and retrieved his mobile.

"How fortuitous," he mumbled. "Mary Watson has gone into labor."


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock looked pointedly at John sitting across from him in the waiting room. "Are you certain it is alright if you are away from Mary right now?"

"Yes, my friend, we, um, well we jumped the gun. Her labor is not progressing swiftly. It will be an age yet. Anyways, she's having a visit with Molly at present."

Sherlock looked away momentarily and then back to John. His friend's head jerked almost imperceptibly.

"Ah, nah, what's that look about, Holmes?"

Sherlock straightened in his seat and blinked lazily. "What look?"

"I don't know. I just thought I saw something on your face when I mentioned Molly. No, no, I was right. There it is again."

"Please, John, You are imagining things."

"Molly!"

John started laughing. He couldn't contain himself as he shifted forward, settling his weight on one foot then the other.

"Ha, ha, ha! What did you do this time? Or rather, what did she do after you did it to her?" John tilted his head one way and then the other as he searched Sherlock's face. "I don't see any marks so she didn't slap you. Did she punch you somewhere else? Are you sporting a bruise on your solar plexus? What did you say to earn that?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What makes you think we've been anywhere near each other?"

John raised his brows. "My awesome powers of deduction. What do you think, you prat? You two arrived together."

"Ah, that. We did, didn't we?"

"Yes, you did. Did you follow her home from the lab or something?"

Sherlock stretched his neck. John didn't know how just how close he was to the truth.

"God, I hope you don't ever try your hand at poker, mate. You'd be shite at it."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and scoffed. "Oh, do shut up, John!"

John ran a hand through his hair. "Ah, look, Sherlock, I really don't have the mental energy to expend right now trying to figure out what you two have going on except to say, you can't continue like this, you know? Molly's not someone you can collect like myself, or Greg, or even Mrs. Hudson . . ."

"John, you are hardly an expert on all things Molly."

"No, no, I fancy I'm rather more an expert on you," John said while rubbing his hands over his face.

John's leg jittered a moment and then went still. He became lost in thought. He pulled at his brow and as he spoke, a world populated before Sherlock's eyes.

"When I was serving in Afghanistan, we were constantly chasing strays away from the base. It was . . . very hard to turn a blind eye. They were starving, mangy buggers but they knew how to survive, you know? Of course, lots of fellows had pets back home and some of them couldn't help themselves. It was a pattern I saw over and over. A soldier would befriend one of the dogs, feed it, take care of it and earn its loyalty." John swallowed thickly. "One particular fellow had this ratty little blonde thing that would follow him everywhere except out on patrol. Well, one day this soldier returned to the base in a body bag and it was as if his dog forgot how to survive. It held vigil next to his coffin, watched the plane carrying his body fly away and then just laid down and waited for its master to return. We couldn't get rid of it, nor coax it with food or water. My commander eventually put it down because it had wasted away to nothing waiting . . . for the impossible."

Sherlock let out an incredulous, high-pitched laugh. "Really, John, if Molly heard you comparing her to a dog-"

John leaned forward and tapped him on the breastbone with his finger. "Look, we all love Molly, we do, but it's time you chased her away, that is if you still can. Especially if what you told me the other night is true."

It was Sherlock's leg's turn to dance beneath him. "I shouldn't be here."

John frowned.

Sherlock waved his hand at him. "No, I mean, I'm the last person you should have around your newborn, John. I am a magnet for the deranged and dangerous."

John let out a laugh. "And here I thought that was my lot in life. Um, you're not talking about Molly, are you?"

Sherlock barked a laugh. "Molly? Deranged? Dangerous? No, no, of course not. You know who I meant, John. Seriously though, you need only utter a word and I will remove myself."

"We've been over this, Sherlock. You're stuck with us. Besides, we've established that Moriarty has not, in fact, returned so there is not any actual threat to us at present," John said with a smile. "I can still not believe that broadcast was a prank."

Sherlock sat forward, placed his elbows on his knees and rested his chin on the tips of his fingers. "Well, prank is a rather tame description. I know Mycroft sees little threat in what occupies the time of a fourteen year old genius who has chosen hacking as his entertainment, but mark my words - that little shit will gridlock all internet traffic this side of the Atlantic one day just for fun."

John nodded. "What was his name again?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he stared through John. "Sebastian something or other . . . Moran I think it was. I should file that name away. I have no doubt we'll hear it again in the future."

For a minute they were both quiet. The hospital hummed around them.

"Sherlock, what we talked about, the, um, other one. Have you made any progress? Have you found him?"

Sherlock sat up. "No, he is proving elusive. I find myself at a loss, John. You and I have had dealings with some dangerous men but by comparison, they were twisters. This man, he is a cyclone. He will not want to return to exile and will do anything to prevent it. I cannot stress how careful you must be. He is more intelligent than myself and Mycroft, especially Mycroft. Aag! Stupid, stupid Mycroft! I cannot believe my brother was so gullible."

"But you did say he has no reason to come after us . . ."

"No, not at present. He is not concerned with the working of ants."

John pursed his lips. "Yeah, thanks for that. My family and I, we're just ants, are we?"

"Focus, John, I wasn't speaking of my regard for you and yours. This is how he views us all, but I have proved to be an annoying ant at times. I have managed to sting him. If he thinks interfering in your lives will somehow will lesson my potency, he will do it."

"Dr. Watson?" A melodic voice called.

Sherlock and John both looked towards the source of their interruption. A young nurse smiled at them.

"Yes?" John replied.

"Things are starting to pick up. Mary asked for me to fetch you. She was quite insistent."

John's eyes widened. He stood up with a bewildered look on his face.

"Lord, this is it then, isn't it?"

Sherlock stood and patted him on the back. "I suggest you make haste, John. It wouldn't do to upset Mary, for any of our sake."


	7. Chapter 7

Molly peeled the lid off a Tupperware container and stared anxiously down at the contents. Two dozen cheerful pink cupcakes decorated with a mound of swirled buttercream beckoned for a bite.

"Oh, Molly, these are lovely!" Mary Watson exclaimed.

Molly smiled. "Well, I thought I should ruin your diet! I can't believe how good you look, it's only been six weeks since you gave birth."

"Oh, go on! I've got my Spanx on, that's all. When I let it hang out, I still look like I'm three months along."

Molly laughed faintly. It was lovely to see Mary and John so happy and their wee one, Miss Elizabeth Shirley Watson, was a real life doll but Molly was in fact, putting on a brave face. Truth be told, she was dying a little with each passing moment. Any second, Sherlock Holmes would arrive at the Watson's baby shower with some gift that was certain to be ridiculously expensive and terribly sentimental, not that Molly resented the dear little angel anything. What drove daggers through Molly's heart was witnessing the depth of affection Sherlock seemed to be able to generate for others in his circle.

He had told her once that she counted but she was beginning to questions his metrics. What did it mean to Sherlock Holmes to "count" a person? In the six weeks since she had kissed him, he had virtually disappeared from her life. He had to know what that would mean to her but instead of manning-up and explaining that he wasn't interested, he just pulled a bloody _Reichenbach Fall_. On her!

"What's wrong, love? You alright?" Mary's voice cut though her thoughts.

Molly shook her head. "Oh, sorry, Mary. Never mind me, I was thinking about work. Please, tell me about you. How are things going?"

Mary sighed as she busied herself removing the wrap from some plates of assorted appetizers. "I can't lie. It's not all been great. I'm knackered. Bethie doesn't sleep more than a few hours at a time. I tried and tried but the breastfeeding didn't work out and now I'm back on birth control which hasn't helped my moods at all. Oh, but listen to me. It's actually all been strangely worth it. I-mm, ahem, I never thought I deserved this kind of life, Molly."

Tears glistened in Mary's eyes. Molly threw her arms around her friend and squeezed her tightly.

"You do deserve it, Mary. Never doubt that."

Mary nodded when Molly released her from their embrace. "Thank-you, you're one of the good ones, Molly Hooper. If you ever need anyone knocked off, let me know!"

Molly pressed her lips together. "Um, thanks, but I'm good on that front."

Mary picked up a couple of the trays. "Alright, I should get some of this food out before John has a sugar crash. Coming?"

"Be right along, I'll just put these cupcakes on a platter."

Mary winked and left Molly in her small kitchen. Molly set to work arranging her carefully constructed cupcakes on an oval serving plate. She desperately wanted to leave but could not come up with a reasonable explanation for her departure. Sherlock would surely pick it apart in her absence and she would offend the Watsons. Then again, to hell with Sherlock! Maybe he wouldn't even notice she was absent.

Molly fished her phone from her pocket. One faux emergency autopsy coming up! She grabbed the tray of cupcakes and headed out to the living room. Once she set the tray down with the rest of the food, she plastered a fretful look on her face, waggled her phone and made her excuses to Mary and John. When she had kissed Elizabeth on her downy forehead and escaped out the front door of their apartment, she finally took a deep breath. She couldn't stop a tear from escaping her brimming lids, though. Angrily, she wiped it away.

Then, she felt like her feet were on fire. She glanced at her watch. She needed to get out of there and quick. While Sherlock was always fashionably late to these kind of engagements, he could be counted on to be exactly twenty-two minutes in arrears which meant she had about one minute to spare. She ran past the elevators and slammed through the door into the stairwell. Panting, she leaned back against it to regain her faculties. Once her breathing returned to an even pace, she started down the dimly lit stairs at a more leisurely pace.

Halfway to the first landing, the creaking groan of a door somewhere far below echoed up the stairwell. Molly's heart started racing. She was in a near panic. She wanted to believe Sherlock would take the elevator. Her steps slowed and she plodded down the stairs as if she had moccasins on her feet. Then, somehow she just knew it was him! She turned back, then forwards again, then back once more. She didn't know what to do but she knew if she tried to run, she would find herself face down on the carpeted stairs.

So, she waited. She freakin' waited, shaking on the second landing as she heard deliberate footfalls ascend towards her location. She practiced an air of disdain and distorted her face into several expressions until she settled on something that felt like aloofness. Yes, cool, calm Molly.

 _"Crap, he'll see through me in an instant."_

Yet, she waited still and sure enough, Sherlock stepped into view. As if he sensed her presence, his face tilted up and their gazes locked. Seconds later, he towered over her on the landing, a vision of flawlessness. His sculpted cheekbones, dark curls, and pale eyes drove her mad. She wanted to slap the hotness off him.

"Sherlock," she acknowledged.

"Molly," he said in return.

An awkward silence ensued. Molly's face twisted into a frown. She placed her hands over her mouth. She could no longer bear pretending that she was okay.

"Oh, oh . . . goddamnit! Fuck this!"

She made a move to brush by him but his hands shot out and grabbed her by her upper arms. Her gaze lifted. His lips formed words, but he did not speak. He looked away with a half-shake of his head then she felt his hands compress on her arms. He shook her once gently as his hands tightened on her arms.

"You are making this impossible, Molly."

She chewed her bottom lip. "I am? Me? You have some nerve, Sherlock."

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, he looked lost. His uncertain demeanor reminded her of how he'd acted the time he asked for her help faking his death. She would have done anything for him then. She realized in that moment, looking up into his naked vulnerability, that she still would. She also knew, something needed to change.

Her voice sounded small when she spoke. "What do you need?"

"Molly," he growled.

He jerked her forward until their chests met and she felt his chin make the barest contact with the hair at the side of her head.

Molly cleared her throat. She had to stop this, whatever it was.

"I never ask for anything, Sherlock, never."

She felt the hairs against her face move with his breath.

"That is not entirely . . . accurate," he murmured.

Molly clenched her hands into fists. "I don't – never mind, whatever - I need you to do something for me now."

"Molly . . ."

"I need you to leave me alone."

Sherlock's hands alternated clenching and unclenching on her arms. "No."

Molly's mouth fell open. "Wh-what?"

His hands finally relented their grasp. Then she felt them trail across her shoulders, slide up her neck and at last, cup her chin. Sherlock gazed down at her, his eyes narrowed and concentrated on her face.

"It's too late for that, Molly, much too late. John told me a story recently about a soldier and a stray, but he got it wrong. He thought you were the dog . . ."

Molly stuck her lips out. "Wait a minute, John called me a dog?"

"Erm, no, not quite-"

"Not quite? What does that mean!?"

Sherlock let out a noisy breath. "Do be quiet, Hooper!"

He rubbed a thumb over her lip. "I have tried to stay away from you. I have tried but I cannot delude myself anymore . . . I have forgotten how to survive without you, Molly."

Then, something happened that Molly never could have guessed in her wildest dreams. Sherlock's lips descended on hers so forcefully that her head was bent back. She was stunned a moment until he relented and began coaxing her mouth open. When she felt the first touch of his tongue over the seam of her lips, fireworks streamed through her body and exploded deep in the recesses of her belly. She succumbed to the overwhelming sensation of it all and melted against his hard body. She couldn't believe she was kissing - properly kissing -Sherlock Holmes. An intense rush at the realization of this caused her legs to buckle and he was forced to catch her up against him.

"I am sorr-"

Before he could finish, she launched herself at him, burying her hands in his silky hair. He clutched her tightly to him, lifted her up and then walked her backwards until she was pressed up against the wall. His lips parted from hers a moment. He stared down at her, mouth open as puffs of hot air heated her face.

"There are things I want to do, Molly, be we cannot right now. Please, erm, stop . . . wiggling. The friction is unbearable."

Molly's breath caught. "Oh, oh! God, Sherlock. Sorry."

He let her down but his hold on her waist remained. "Come with me upstairs? You know how much I dislike _people._ I need you."

Molly touched his face. She wasn't sure she was in a dream or not but she didn't want it to end.

"Yes, of course."


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock stared down at the small hand folded in his clasp and squeezed it gently. When the owner of the hand answered in kind, he felt every phalanx, phalange and metacarpal move beneath the soft, warm skin.

The delicacy of her fingers made him suddenly and acutely aware of her fragility. He couldn't breathe for a moment as her luminous brown eyes shone up at him with guileless admiration. He felt like a child who had discovered a stash of his Mummy's sweets (which he neither deserved nor should indulge in).

Molly smiled shyly then wrinkled her nose as she parsed out her next words. "Um, I guess we-we're here. We should probably, er, not walk in there holding hands, right?"

Sherlock moved his thumb over each one of her digits. He nodded but was extremely reluctant to relinquish his hold. He loosened his grip and tried not to react as she pulled her hand away. Molly lowered her lids shyly, attempted to suppress a smile and then knocked on the door. Sherlock thought he had himself under control until she twirled a lock of hair between her fingers and absentmindedly rubbed the twisted strands against her lips.

Next thing he knew, he was descending on her again like a man half-starved. He sucked in a breath against her soft lips which parted eagerly beneath his and allowed him to take possession of her mouth. A groan bubbled up from deep within his chest. He gathered her against him tightly trying to soak up the feel of her in his arms. Her hands wrapped behind his neck and she clung to him in return. She was tiny, insubstantial, but . . . everything. Heat built in his blood. The pulsing of fluid through his veins became a cacophony of white noise in his ears.

Then it was as if he was doused with water. He heard the door swing open beside them and the murmuring of animated conversation turn gravely silent. He raised his head to see a straight shot into the Watson's flat and their living room where more than a dozen guests stood agape. Sherlock's eyes flicked down to John who had a gasp on his face like a prize trophy trout. His face swung back and forth between Molly and Sherlock.

"Um, ah," he stammered before his voice dropped to a whisper, "God, really?"

Molly squeaked and buried her face in Sherlock's chest. Sherlock smoothed his hand over the back of her head.

"You'll have to face it eventually," he murmured in her ear.

He spun Molly off him but intertwined his fingers in hers and stepped past John with her in tow. John closed the door and dogged their steps into the living room.

"Sherlock-?"

"Not now, John!" he replied. "Mary, you're looking well."

Mary's eyes were almost as wide as John's but she had an incredulous smile on her face. "I'm good, Sherlock. Molly, you're back! So, the emergency at work - false alarm?"

Sherlock watched Molly turn a deep crimson. "Um, Mike was able to cover."

Mary's brows rose and she smirked. "Hmm, I see."

A standoff ensued until Greg Lestrade coughed and greeted them. Then, everyone resumed their conversations and the hum of the room began again like a needle falling onto a record.

Sherlock averted his gaze from John's and struck up a conversation with Greg who began filling him in about a recent interesting unexplained death investigation. John huffed, muttered a curse and threw up his hands as he walked away. Molly's hand slipped out of Sherlock's shortly thereafter and when he scanned the room for her, he discovered she had disappeared. Mary too, it seemed, had gone somewhere. No doubt she was grilling his pathologist in the kitchen.

His pathologist? He shook himself mentally but a word burned in his mind's eye like a flash of lightning.

MINE.

A thousand puzzle pieces fell into place in an instant. The solving of the conundrum of Molly Hooper seared through his brain with such ferocity that he felt like a permanent fissure would remain. _His_. She'd been his since the moment he first laid eyes on her drowning in an over sized lab coat and baggy hospital scrubs patterned with miniature ducks. No matter how much he tried to ignore his feelings, he'd never been able to relinquish his claim. In fact, he hadn't just fallen asleep naked in Molly's bed the night she broke up with Tom by happenstance. He'd lured Tom to her flat by sending him a text from her phone earlier in the evening and inviting him to stay the night.

"Holmes, are you listening to me?" Lestrade's voice cut through his thoughts.

Sherlock shook his head. "Yeees?"

"Ack, you're not! I asked if you had any ideas about the dead dentist? Was it really a heart attack?"

Sherlock's eyes constricted. He snapped into deduction mode and recalled the information he managed to glean from Greg' ramblings.

"No, it was the lover. Well, no, not truly. An accident really. Mrs. Leeds found Dr. Leeds dead at the clinic from huffing too much gas during a sexual misadventure. She covered it up to save herself the scandal of his particular proclivities coming to light. You see, his lover was a young male, one of his patients and unfamiliar with the proper settings on the gas apparatus . . ."

Greg's mouth dropped open. "You never cease to amaze me. How did you get all that from what I said?"

Sherlock prepared to explain but let out an exhaustive breath instead. "Do you really want me to point out all your incorrect assumptions or just inform you that you'll get a complete confession from Mrs. Leeds if you mention that her insurance policy will pay her three times the settlement if she can prove he died as a result of an accident instead of natural causes?"

Greg let out a breath as a whistle. "Er, that, I guess. Well, thanks, saves me some paperwork."

"Excellent."

Sherlock scanned the room again looking for Molly. She had not yet returned unlike Mary who was once again surrounded by people blubbering nonsensically to the infant in her arms. He started to walk away from Greg on a mission to track her down.

"Guess we're done speaking," Greg quipped.

Sherlock raised his brows. "I thought that was apparent . . ."

He then happened to glance at John who was greeting another visitor at his door. Time went on hiatus. Sherlock had to blink a few times to convince himself he was suffering from some sort of mental break as he watched the scene unfold.

His voice came out strangled, practically inaudible. "John . . .don't."

John did not hear his friend and continued to address the stranger. "May I help you?"

A tall, slim man dressed entirely in black sauntered past John into the gathering with a smile that turned Sherlock's stomach.

"Excuse, me, sir, do I know you? You a friend of Mary's?" John prodded.

"God, no!" He replied.

Sherlock was paralyzed. He tried to analyze details to calm his mind. The man's familiar ruddy copper hair was cropped close to his head. His hands were hidden in the pockets of his designer suit. His bright blue eyes scanned the scene like a predator taking stock of prey. Then, like the crack of a whip, his eyes found Sherlock's.

"Such a charming little ecosystem you have going on here, Sherlock, but you're still trying to sort out the right way to tend to them, aren't you?"

The man whirled on the ball of his foot and surveyed the room again. His eyes lingered on Mary for a moment as she clutched her baby to her chest.

He looked back at Sherlock with a smirk. "What do you do with them when they expire? Flush them?"

"Sherlock, what's going on?" John asked sharply.

Sherlock was overwhelmed and tongue-tied as if thirty years of his maturity was wiped away in an instant. Fear rooted him to the spot.

The man cocked his head to the side. "Cat got your tongue, second chair?"

"Sherlock!" John shouted. "Who is this?"

Spurred into action, Sherlock reached into his pocket and pressed the secret panic button on his phone which send an alert to Mycroft. Finally, he cleared his throat and managed to speak.

"It's Sherrinford, my eldest brother."


	9. Chapter 9

Molly pulled her phone from her pocket and checked the time. She knew she would have to emerge from the bathroom at some point but it was proving difficult. She felt as if she could vibrate apart at any moment.

Sherlock had snogged her, twice in a matter of minutes, and if that weren't bonkers enough he'd admitted feelings for her as well. She didn't know how to process all this. Part of her was indescribably giddy while another part of her demanded she run away before the bubble burst and revealed this as some sort of sham. Like, what if she were another Janine?

Oh, Sherlock thought she didn't know about how he had feigned a relationship with that woman but she'd heard it straight from the horse's mouth when visiting Sherlock in the hospital. He had still been in a medically-induced coma after being shot and Molly had walked into her worst nightmare only to be confronted with her second worst- Sherlock's secret girlfriend.

* * *

"He awake yet?"

Molly had been holding vigil next to Sherlock, whose skin was so pale from fighting for his life that it was practically transparent, when she heard someone speak. She'd turned around to greet who she thought was a nurse but instead recognized the visitor as Janine the bridesmaid from the Watson's wedding. She remembered her because Sherlock had seemed overly chummy with her that day.

Molly had sat up a bit straighter. Janine was the kind of woman who made Molly feel like an inadequate representative of the female populace. She was a classic beauty with long, raven tresses and an easy smile. She was used to leaving an impression. Molly, in a little act of defiance, wouldn't give her that satisfaction.

"Erm, no. He isn't. I –ah- I'm sorry, you're a friend of Mary's, right? I forgot your name. "

"Janine." Her eyebrow arched. "Although, I know yours. Molly, right?"

Molly had felt her eyes widen. "Yes, that's correct. Wow, you've got a great recollection. I didn't think I made any kind of impression."

Janine had scoffed. "You didn't."

Molly's face went a bit cold. That seemed like an unusually unkind thing to say but the woman was obviously irritated about something.

"Then how did you know my name?"

"Sherlock mumbled it after he returned here from surgery. I thought you were an old pet or something. Mary corrected that for me."

Molly was beyond confused.

"We dated you know," She crossed her arms. "Sherlock and I, we were together for six weeks."

Molly's mouth fell open. She closed it quickly.

"Oh?" Her mind had reeled at that revelation.

"Och, relax. Look at you, all confused. Well, calm yourself, Miss Molly. You can go back to believing he's a cold fish because he is, the bastard. He pretended to care about me so that he could break into my boss' office. He used me. Sound familiar?"

Molly swallowed. She looked away and back to Sherlock. Whatever his faults, she could not feel anything but petrified for him with an overwhelming urge to chase this woman out of his hospital room. Janine may have dated Sherlock, and spent a lot of time with him, but she didn't know him. Molly felt like her expression was murderous when she looked at Janine again.

"Ouch, that look! God, he's not worth defending, Molly. He's nothing but a machine held together by purpose and function and powered by lies." Her fingers traced her lips. "Such convincing lies."

Molly's face went hot. "I-I don't need to hear any of this. Sherlock and I are just friends . . ."

Janine laughed softly. "Friends?"

Her eyes scanned Molly. She squinted and then smirked. "Ah, hasn't crossed that line yet with you, hmm? Consider that a compliment! Maybe somewhere in that bloody arrogant blob of his he calls a brain he has a sliver of respect for you. Then again, he only does as much as he needs to, doesn't he? I can't believe I bought so many of his excuses. There never was a right time and when there was, an interruption seemed to come out of nowhere and be so well timed it was as if orchestrated. You know what I mean?"

"I'm sure I do not!"

Janine had lurched forward then and grabbed her arm.

"Molly, truly, and I say this because you seem like a genuine person. Don't waste your life on him! Six weeks isn't a long time but I regret every minute of it because he was so good at faking it. My mind and my heart are still in disagreement about some moments because he. Was. That. Good. I don't know if I'll ever not envision his face when someone looks at me that way again."

Molly hadn't known how to respond. So instead, she pursed her lips and focussed on Sherlock.

Janine had just sighed. "Alright then, I'll leave you two. When you get away from here and away from him, think about what I've said because if he ever traps you in his web, Molly, you won't have the luxury of perspective."

* * *

Could Sherlock be using her? She wracked her brain but couldn't think of any reason why. She looked at her visage in the mirror one last time. The woman who stared back at her was flushed and nervous but, hopeful for the first time in eons. She had already lost her heart. She had nothing else to lose. Janine may have regretted taking a chance on love with Sherlock, but in Molly's mind, a fake chance was better than no chance. So, she smiled, straightened her shoulders and decided to rejoin the party.

As she rounded the corner from the hallway into the living room though, she knew something was wrong. A man, dressed in a black suit, faced a terrified Sherlock while everyone else in the gathering stood by like spectators at a crash scene. She had only ever seen that look on his face once, long ago at the lab when he asked for her to be his savior. Her hand flew to her chest. Then, she steeled her features. It would not help him for her to show apprehension.

Sherlock's gaze flicked over the man's shoulder then. His eyes met hers. She lifted her chin, raised her brows and tried to speak to him silently.

 _"Stop this, whatever it is. You're Sherlock Holmes, deal with it."_

Then, as if a cloud lifted off him, he stood taller. Molly observed the man's head cock to one side.

"Well, hello there finally, brother! What's shored up your confidence?"

The man whirled and faced Molly. She could see the family resemblance straight away. This man was a Holmes, although, his resemblance skewed more towards Mycroft. His hair was the same ginger tone but his eyes much more intensely blue, like the Caribbean Sea. His brow furrowed furiously when he looked Molly up and down.

She watched him look over the room again. His head bobbed as he appeared to count each guest. When his eyes settled on her again, he tilted his head dramatically and came towards her.

"Molly, don't let him touch you!" Sherlock barked.

Molly skirted the room towards Sherlock as the man studied her with incredulity.

"What's a Molly?" He asked.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in concentration as he reached for Molly's hand and tucked her behind him. He seemed to be working something out then which made her feel much more at ease.

"What do you mean _, 'what's a Molly'_ , Sherrinford?" Sherlock asked.

The man named Sherrinford continued to stare at her. Every once in a while he would wince as if experiencing a sudden stab of pain.

"She is not supposed to be here. SHE DOESN'T EXIST!" The tone of the man's voice was unsettling.

"What's going on, Sherlock?" Molly whispered.

Sherlock shuffled back, bumping into her and causing her to step back. She held onto his elbow and steadied herself against his back. The man paced and muttered to himself.

"I can't explain right now. Molly, if I tell you to go, I want you to run as fast as you can from here."

She felt her face bunch up into a frown. "Not in this life, buddy."

"Molly, now's not the time to disobey me . . ."

Molly bristled. "Disobey!"

Sherrinford (most likely) Holmes' head twitched in her direction again. He buckled over while clutching his temples with his hands. Then, he backed away towards the door wagging his finger.

"I don't know how you managed this, little brother," he hissed, "but the answer won't elude me for long. Give my regards to Mycroft. He would have been here too late, much too late."


	10. Chapter 10

Anthea swiped through another video feed on her phone. The oldest Holmes was a cunning bastard. He obviously knew where all the surveillance cameras around London were located because neither he nor his pewter grey Mercedes could be found on any of them. She sighed as she looked up from the calm passivity of her mobile's screen to the animated whirlwind of conversation centered on one dainty pathologist. Their eyes met. Ms. Molly Hooper, aged thirty-four, single (though this was in question at the moment), doctor at Bart's, and dreadfully fashion-impaired (oversized pink plaid cardigan, lemon yellow tee-shirt, pleated khaki trousers, and –ug- navy and white striped cotton flats) looked anxious as the men around her conversed hotly. Anthea smiled at her with reassurance. There was something charming about the diminutive woman's utterly hopeless style and nervous smiles.

Anthea looked to her boss then and shrugged apologetically. He pressed his lips together in a grim line and nodded. Her eyes lingered on his face. Sherlock was lambasting him again which of course, irritated Anthea. No one, especially his troublesome sibling, ever seemed to appreciate that Mycroft had the entire weight of the world on his shoulders. She felt her lip curl downwards in response to the shadow of frustration that crossed his handsome face. Her hand itched to smooth the lines of worry that marred his forehead but, like every time before this, she refrained. That one small touch could be a crossed boundary that might send her from his side, a risk she had never wanted to take. She belonged next to him even if it were only ever to serve.

Out of the corner of her eye, Anthea felt the gaze of the pathologist on her again. There was something disconcerting about the way the small woman's eyes flickered after she looked at a person, as if she had just dissected their innermost feelings. When Anthea glanced her way once more, Molly was smiling in commiseration as if to say, _"I understand. It's not easy loving a Holmes."_

"Alright, enough of this!" Mycroft said at last. "This is not a topic we should discuss here. John, Mrs. Watson, my apologies for the treatment of your guests. My men should be done debriefing them soon. Ms. Hooper, Sherlock, if you would step out to my car we will continue this discussion somewhere more appropriate. Anthea, do secure a room for us."

Anthea retrieved her phone and swiped a few gestures. Her phone vibrated a response within seconds.

"I'll have them sweep a room at the Connaught. It should be ready by the time you get there. Will that do?"

"Yes, thank-you." Mycroft looked expectantly at Sherlock. "Shall we?"

Sherlock raised his brows at John Watson. "You are coming as well, aren't you?"

John looked at his wife who just nodded.

"I guess I am," he muttered.

Anthea watched, with just the tiniest bit of resentment, as Sherlock gazed down at Molly and then clasped her hand while at the same time, John kissed his wife and baby goodbye on each of their brows. Mary took her infant and headed to her room for respite as the three of them left for the hotel. Once they had gone, Mycroft nodded to her.

"You all set, Anthea?"

"As ever, boss."

He smiled and grabbed his umbrella from beside the door. "Will I see you later?"

"Yes, of course. I'll let you know if the technicians find anything."

He dipped his head and left without another word. Anthea stared at the door for a moment after it closed and then started counting minutes.

* * *

Molly stood up from the plush blue couch that was trying to swallow her whole. The decadent Apartment suite at the Connaught Hotel made her feel ill at ease and the sparring between Sherlock, Mycroft and John was going nowhere.

Sherlock was at fault! He should have stopped Sherrinford from leaving. Mycroft was at fault for letting him go in the first place! John was fearful for his family! Why had he looked at Mary that way?

"Oh, p-put a cork in it, all of you!" She shouted. "You're talking in circles and I am still no closer to understanding what the hell is going on and why I am of any importance at all. Frankly, I could use a nice, warm soak and that giant tub in the bathroom keeps calling for me to fulfill its destiny. So, unless I am needed, I think I'll go piss off for a bit."

The three men stared at her with stunned looks. Sherlock stopped and finally doffed his jacket before pulling her down to sit with him on the couch.

"Stay . . . erm, _please_."

He attempted to get comfortable and cross his legs but slouched backwards into the spongy padding.

"I need my recliner," he mumbled. "I can't think in this place."

Mycroft slunk into one of the armchairs after wiping a hand over his face. John took the opposite chair but sat forward on it, leaning pensively on his elbows.

"Mm-hmm, what would you like to know, Ms. Hooper?" Mycroft asked with a wave of his hand.

Molly rubbed the ends of her fingers together as she fidgeted. "Sherrinford is your brother but there's something wrong with him, isn't there? You are both terrified of him . . ."

Both Holmes blustered.

"Hardly!"

"Not exactly!"

Molly raised her brows and gave each one of them a look of derision. She peaked sideways at John.

"Yup, terrified. I agree," John said with a nod.

Molly touched Sherlock's fingers gently. His lids lowered slightly over his anxious green eyes. His lips twitched. Then he spoke.

"Sherrinford is our eldest brother, half-brother that is. A result of an affair Mummy had with a professor before her and Dad got together. He's intelligent, Molly, like no one you have ever met. Even more so than myself if you can imagine that."

Mycroft coughed. "Hmph, is that supposed to be an impressive measure?"

Sherlock glared at Mycroft. "We've already established he's smarter than you!"

John shook his head. "Unbelievable, these two."

Molly looked between the two brothers and sighed. "Focus, please."

Sherlock continued. "Anyways, his abilities, they're almost unfathomable. We called him Nostradamus when we were children. He can _predict_ things."

Molly chewed her lip. "Y-you – you're not telling me you think he's psychic or something? I mean, that's a bit looney . . ."

Mycroft barked out a laugh. "No, Ms. Hooper, he's a macro."

"Macro?"

"It's hard to explain, Molly," Sherlock provided. "I can work out scenarios and come up with several probable outcomes for most situations but Sherrinford can take the same information and know exactly what is going to happen. He can tell you the entire course of your life such as the friends you'll have and when you will die, and that's just a parlor trick for him. He doesn't just do this on a small scale, you understand, he can predict the outcome of wars yet to happen between nations. He's never wrong. He's never _been_ wrong."

Molly nodded, somewhat in disbelief. "He can do all that? Really? But wouldn't that kind of information help about the wars and such? Especially you, Mr. Holmes?"

Mycroft took a deep breath and looked away. "No, because what he tells you is a foregone conclusion. Anything one tries to do to prevent or change the outcome actually ends up ensuring it."

"And he's dangerous because of this? Why?"

Sherlock looked at his brother a moment. Silent shared memories seemed to traverse the space between them.

"Imagine all that knowledge at your fingertips, Ms. Hooper. Even the best of us would develop a complex and Sherrinford is not among the best of us. He bores easily. He tries to find ways to entertain himself."

"Like starting a war instead of just predicting it," Sherlock interjected with low voice.

Molly tried to absorb this information. She looked over at John who shrugged. He didn't seem fazed at all. None of what they had just explained answered her most pressing question.

"Why do I bother him so much?"

Mycroft looked at Sherlock expectantly. "Yes, brother, in all your raving I missed that. What exactly did he say about Ms. Hooper?"

Sherlock stood up and started wearing a path in the rug. "That's what has me perplexed. He was nonsensical. She apparently doesn't exist or some rubbish. I've never seen him behave that way."

Mycroft's eyes contracted as he thought about something. "Yes, you have."

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. When Mycroft didn't immediately elaborate, Sherlock picked up a cushion from the couch and threw it at him.

"Well, out with it, Mycroft!"

Mycroft frowned at Sherlock and put the cushion aside. "He's not infallible, even though he thinks otherwise. Every once in a while, he misses something. Think about it. Remember that gardener Mum hired that one spring? Sherrinford followed him around for weeks trying to figure out how he factored into his equations. In everything he's ever told you, did our brother ever mention Ms. Hooper or some variation of her?"

Sherlock shook his head slowly as his eyes flicked back and forth. He then studied Molly intensely. "No-o, he hasn't. You're – blast! I really don't want to say it. You're _right_."

Mycroft smiled like a cat who caught a bird.

"Oh, don't look so pleased with yourself. I was practically there anyways."

Molly cast her eyes downwards. Her hands shook. "So, what does this all mean?"

Sherlock smiled and pressed his fingers together.

"He missed something somewhere and until he sorts it out, he will be unable to focus on anything else. He may not even be able to predict anything you do. Oh, this is good, this is very good. You're a free radical, Molly." Sherlock clapped his hands with glee. "And you're mine!"


	11. Chapter 11

Frustration curled Molly's toes. In the fifteen minutes since John and Mycroft had left the hotel room, Sherlock had not said a word. He'd just taken a seat across from her and stared as if she were a piece of some sort of abstract art.

"Sherlock, I-I can't lie, a week ago I would have sold my soul to have you pay this kind of attention to me. Right now- I kind of want to smack you."

Sherlock raised his head from his folded hands and frowned at her in confusion. "I am just trying to understand why you're so special."

Molly let out a noisy breath and shot up. "I am going to pretend I didn't hear that."

Sherlock's lips parted in surprise and his eyes enlarged. "What? Where are you going?"

She averted her gaze momentarily. "I am going to use the, erm, facilities."

His eyes flitted back and forth as he thought about something. "You aren't going to carry through on your earlier threat and run the tub, are you?"

Molly put her hands on her hips. "Hmm, is that a problem? Mycroft said I could stay here if I wanted. Maybe I should make myself comfortable. I don't even need a change of clothes. There was this lovely, fluffy white terry cloth robe I saw in there before that I could wear."

Sherlock shifted in his seat. He looked about to stand up but paused as if unsure about his next move.

"You should not do that."

Molly lifted a brow. "And why is that?"

He opened his mouth as if to speak but nothing came out. She held back a smirk as he looked away with a scowl. He then clamped his lips together and huffed through his nose. Molly sauntered over and plucked a room service menu from the table next to him.

"I'll think I'll peruse this while I'm in there. Mycroft did say I could charge whatever I liked. Ooh, I believe I may fancy a bit of wine with my bath. Do you think they can bring me some candles? A posh place like this ought to be able to manage that, mm?"

Sherlock rocketed to his feet. In an instant, he towered over her like a dark, conflicted angel. Giddiness overtook her. She wanted to squeal.

"You cannot do that. It will be distracting."

Molly moved back languidly but her heart was hammering in her chest. She smiled and winked at him.

"Oh, come now, Sherlock. Surely you're busy and such trying to figure out what makes me so special."

She backed away one more step before turning on her heel and practically sprinting to the bathroom.

"Molly!"

She ignored him and slammed through bathroom door. The bathroom was something out of an interior designer's magazine with wall to wall marble and shiny polished fittings. Little soaps and towels stood next to a fresh bouquet of flowers on the vanity. Seriously, it was ridiculous, fresh flowers in the loo.

She thought about locking the door but backed away deliberately, leaving it unsecured. It was a dangerous game but she desperately wanted to provoke him. Years she had fantasized about seeing that heat in his eyes. When he looked at her now, it was actually there, simmering behind his carefully controlled facade. She felt on the edge of a precipice with the winds of change blowing her hair back and she almost couldn't stand the anticipation.

She went about her business, glancing at the door every so often, but uncertain of what to do next so she leaned back against the counter and took it all in. Sherlock probably thought she wasn't serious about having a bath and normally, he'd be spot on. However, a lot of crazy things had happened, like mental things that should have her hiding in a closet somewhere, plucking her brows out. Instead, she felt invigorated. Next thing she knew, she had the taps on the bath blasting water in the tub.

Her hand flew over her mouth as she suppressed a giggle. "What are you going to do now, Mr. Holmes? I am disobeying you."

Molly stripped out of her clothes. She was about to step into the bath when she heard a pounding at the door. She grabbed the robe off a hook on the wall and whipped it on just as Sherlock opened the door.

Her breathing ceased the moment she saw the stormy look on his face. She could tell he'd been raking his fingers through his hair as his curls were in wild disarray. He'd ditched his suit jacket and not one, but two of his buttons were unfastened at his throat. His pale eyes set on her with an intensity that started a tremble in her feet. She busied her quaking hands with the ties on her robe.

 _"Oh God, oh God, oh God!"_ Her inner voice squeaked.

He paced into the room, watching her with narrowed eyes as he strode to the tub. When he was finished slowly twisting each of the valves closed, he straightened and shook his head.

"What have I told you about soliciting trouble, Ms. Hooper?"

Molly didn't realize she'd been gravitating backwards until she bumped into the vanity. "Yes, I d-do realize it is generally not r-recommended . . ."

Sherlock flicked each of his cuffs open, pushed his sleeves up and traversed the space between them in two steps. His eyes held hers as he trapped her by placing a hand on the counter either side of her hips.

"But?" His eyes glinted.

She licked her lips nervously. "I like it."

Sherlock's eyes closed briefly and a gravelly sigh escaped his lips. "Molly, this is madness. I cannot form a single coherent thought."

Oh, her knees! She wobbled. Sherlock grabbed the knot of her robe tie and held her upright until she stood on her own two feet again. She placed her hands against his chest. God, he was hot, like touching an iron left on too long. His heat seeped through his shirt into her fingers.

"What else do you like, Molly?" He murmured.

She felt a tug on the knot of her robe and the garment loosened around her middle. He leaned into her, dipped his head and brushed his lips against the tender skin of her neck. She let her neck go slack and head tilt to one side to allow him more access. At the same time, his fingers parted her robe and sought the smooth plain of her stomach. As she felt the slight roughness of his calloused hand slide around her middle, a thousand sparks rained down and exploded between her thighs.

"Oh, God," she whispered.

Sherlock pulled his head up at that moment and slammed his lips down over hers. She slung an arm around his neck and held on for dear life as if she were riding pinion on a motorcycle. Both of his hands were in her robe shortly thereafter, gripping her hips and pulling her forcefully against him. Then, she felt it, evidence of her effect on him pressing insistently against her belly through his trousers.

"Molly," he gasped against her lips. "Do you want this? Truly?"

Molly nodded, bumping their noses. His full lips assailed hers again forcefully as if he teetered on the edge of control. Molly drowned in it. She burned for him, every inch of her felt aflame and there was a molten fire in her core, hot and slick. She was beyond ready, throbbing and wet for him.

Her robe was discarded. He scooped her up and carried her from the bathroom towards one of the two bedrooms in the suite. She buried her face in his neck, feeling fleetingly embarrassed about her complete nakedness and raging arousal. He deposited her on the bed, causing her to bounce once in his haste to remove his own clothing. She watched, chewing her lip as every perfectly sculpted inch of him was revealed. There were ribbons of lava coursing through her veins as she took in the sight of his smooth, pale skin and lean form.

Oh, and then there was his member, fully aroused and bobbing as he crawled towards her on the bed. In the glimpse she had, she was glad she was ready for him as it was going to be a tight fit.

She reached for him, anxious to run her hands over his body and wrap her fingers around his cock, but he grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head as his body settled over hers.

"This is not something I have done recently, Molly," he said gruffly. "I am practically undone as it is. I don't think I can sustain this for much longer if you touch me."

Molly swallowed and nodded. His erection strained against her belly. She felt impossibly frayed. She didn't think she would last either as his lips trailed down her body. Her insides were wound so tight, she thought she might split at the seams. Of course, he had to gauge this for himself by stroking a finger over the most sensitive part of her. She almost leaped off the bed as an arc of electricity pulsed between her legs.

"Oh! Unh, Christ!" She clutched his hand. "For the love of God, you need to fuck me now, Sherlock."

He grunted. "Noted."

Sherlock moved between her thighs, his fingers bit into her leg, hiking it up. She felt the blunt tip of him push against her opening and got lost in that moment. Time stood still.

 _"Is this really happening?"_ She wondered.

Then she felt him intrude into her body, stretching and invading her, the feeling at once both so deliciously right but also unsettling in its visceral reality. Her eyes lolled back in her head as she felt every vein along his shaft against her inner walls. This was real. He was inside her and . . . moving. He pulled out partway and then groaned as he plummeted back inside. He slammed into the back of her womb and she could practically feel him all the way up in her belly.

"You are-" he panted, "so wet."

"Mm, yes, for you, Sherlock. Please . . ."

He answered her plea but thrust in and out deliberately and slowly at first, ensuring she felt his full force with every movement. Then, as if breaking free on black ice, the pace exploded. Molly felt something unfurl in her belly like a wire stretching tight. She concentrated on that point of tension, strained for it and soon felt sparks accumulating at her center. Sherlock continued to thrust, his breaths rasped in her ear. When the sound from his throat hitched, the sparks that had been building full on combusted and she flew apart. Her orgasm hit her so suddenly and completely that she cried out as the waves crashed through her body. Hearing her release, Sherlock grunted, pressed his forehead against her chest and came. A second shockwave rocked her core as she felt the pulsing of his member as he emptied himself inside her.

It was real. Too real. She buried her fingers in his hair and shifted herself beneath him. Sherlock's exhausted body weighted her down against the bed. She almost burst out into a hyena laugh.

She just had sex with Sherlock Holmes. Sex. With Sherlock.

Oh, shit. Shitty, shitty, shit! What was she thinking?

She just had _unprotected_ sex with Sherlock Holmes.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock's dark head lifted from Molly's chest and she found herself blushing as their eyes met. He propped himself up on an elbow and studied her through half-lidded eyes.

"You are still self-conscious, even now?" He observed.

Molly ran her tongue over her lips anxiously and nodded.

Sherlock looked down her naked form and then back up at her face. His hand followed where his gaze had been. Molly felt her insides quiver at his touch and the look of appreciation on his face.

"I am sorry," he murmured. "Perhaps if I had been able to temper my response somewhat, you would have a better understanding of how much I do, in fact, value your more appealing attributes."

She cleared her throat. "Such as?"

His hand slid up to curl around her breast. "Mm, well, these, of course. I must beg your forgiveness, I think I mistakenly said they were too small once."

Molly raked in a breath as his thumb pressed gently against her breast and rubbed slowly over her dark-rose colored nipple. He watched intently as it depressed and popped back up. He then leaned down and touched his tongue to a freckle on the curve of flesh beneath it. She felt a flush between her legs again.

"They are actually perfect," he said as he looked up from where he had tasted her skin.

Molly's blood rushed through her veins as his mouth moved upwards towards her nipple. She gasped as his lips first brushed it then opened and hovered a moment. Warm, damp breath puffed - once, twice . . .

"Sherlock, y-you're killing me."

He smiled. Then his mouth, wet and hot, captured the sensitive bud. Teeth gently pulled at her nipple. She practically levitated off the bed as her body convulsed and her clit pulsed. Oh, she was doing it again! Bad, bad, greedy, greedy, Molly! She had already tempted fate once. She needed to resist him this time.

"Aah, shit!" She cried as his fingers started stroking the sensitive bundle of nerves there.

She felt his body rumble against her as he growled with satisfaction.

"This part," he slid a finger into her, "fits me better than anything I've ever worn."

"O-okay, you have to stop!"

He laughed. "Do I?"

"Yes, oh, I don't want you to but we've done something really stupid."

Sherlock's movements ground to a stop. His face shuttered as he raised his head.

"We have?"

She swallowed. If she didn't know any better, she would say he was hurt by that remark.

"I don't mean to say – um- damn, it's just . . . we didn't use any protection."

He nodded slowly. "Molly, I assure you, I am clean. I just had a slew of negative tests recently . . ."

She shook her head. "I'm not worried about that. I, um, well I ran my own tests on your blood after the drugs thing. Oh, Christ, I am so sorry. I am not on any birth control."

Sherlock's hand slid to her belly. His head twitched and his eyes zipped back and forth as he thought about something. "But I have seen pills in your medicine cabinet."

She poked him. "Ooh, you really can't keep your nose out of anything, can you? You know what happens when you assume something, Sherlock? You make an ASS out of U and ME! I stopped taking them when I split with Tom. Oh, crap, I'm sorry. This is my fault though."

His thumb absentmindedly dipped into her belly button.

"No, it's mine as well. I did think about the need for a condom but calculated that it would only minimize the risk of pregnancy a further 0.1 percent if you were on the pill which seemed an insignificant statistic when compared to the larger 100 percent likelihood I would explode if I did not have you right then."

Molly sucked in some air. "You were doing math while we were getting it on?"

He dipped his head. "Ah, yes. Does that bother you?"

She groaned. "No, it's hot. Damn."

Sherlock rolled on top of her then. His eyes were dark, intense. She let out a stream of air.

"Don't worry, please, I will fix this. I can take emergency contraceptive."

He frowned. "Molly, it's your body. My feelings are irrelevant."

Molly pressed her lips together and nodded vigorously. Then she pulled his head down and kissed him before tears could spill from her eyes. He kissed her in return. She felt his cock stiffen against her stomach. A naughty little voice in her head started badgering her to spread her legs again and demand satisfaction.

 _"_ _You're going to take Plan B anyways . . ."_

As if reading her thoughts Sherlock lifted his head. "Statistically speaking, we are already screwed."

"Oh, you are trouble, Sherlock Holmes. Trouble, trouble, trouble . . ."

It was then his phone began to chime in his discarded clothing. He stared down at her for a second.

"I should probably get that."

"Yes, you should."

Sherlock retrieved his phone and sat on the edge of the bed as he read a message. His face blanched. He pushed his hair back from around his face.

"W-what is it?" Molly asked.

"Mary," he said flatly. "She's collapsed. They are on their way to the hospital."

Molly and Sherlock arrived at the hospital a half hour later to a clearly distraught John pacing the emergency room waiting area.

"John," Sherlock said anxiously. "John, what's happened?"

John was ashen, his hands trembled. "Oh, Christ, she fell down. She just handed me the baby and keeled over. I should have gotten there sooner but I stopped by the store first. I shouldn't have left her alone. I shouldn't have left . . ."

Sherlock placed his hand on John's shoulder. "John, you got her prompt attention. It probably wouldn't have mattered if you were there . . ."

John pounded his own chest. "I'm a doctor. I would have seen something. I'm a-a d-doctor!"

Molly stood by helplessly. "John, do you need anything? Can I help you? Where's Bethie?"

John clasped his hands together and blew into them. He closed his eyes a moment as he tried to calm himself.

"Anthea has her. She is waiting for my sister to come pick her up."

Sherlock looked at Molly with apprehension. "Anthea, interesting. I wonder how she's managing."

Molly smacked him covertly. "Shush."

"John Watson?" An older doctor approached them looking grim.

Molly's heart lurched in her chest. She knew that look. She had given that look. Her eyes flew to Sherlock. He shook his head as he read her face.

"No, impossible," he whispered.

John looked between them incredulously. His eyes flashed to the doctor and back to Sherlock.

"No," he breathed.

"Mr. Watson, will you come with me please."

"No, my wife. Please, t-tell me what's happened to my wife."

The doctor cast his eyes to the floor and coughed. "I think it would be better if you just follow me . . ."

"Tell me about my wife!"

The doctor removed his glasses and wiped sweat from his brow. "Mr. Watson, your wife suffered a cardiac arrest. We did everything we could but, ahem, um, I am sorry. She has- she has passed."

John stumbled then. Sherlock caught him under his arms. Molly raised a shaking hand to her mouth as tears stung her eyes.

"No! No! She is thirty six years old. She's healthy. That's impossible!"

Silence enveloped them all a moment. Then John let out a cry like nothing Molly had ever heard. She choked up.

"Oh, God, it's not possible!" He wailed. "It's not possible."

Molly didn't know what to do. Sherlock's face was waxen. He didn't look as if he could stand much longer himself as he clutched John about the chest. Molly tugged at his arm.

"Take John to the seats," she whispered.

They stumbled over to the benches and collapsed. John buried his head in his hands and sobbed. Sherlock's eyes were wet. His mouth hung open.

"John, I am so sorry," he rasped.

"I don't understand," John cried. "I don't understand. She was fine. She was perfect."

Sherlock clasped his shoulder again. He was at such a loss. "It's unusual, but not impossible."

John flung his shoulder off and stood up. He staggered back. His eyes were wild, incensed.

"Before today, she was fine. She was healthy. Then your brother shows up and she dies. This is your fault!"

Sherlock's head snapped back as if he were slapped. "John . . ."

"No! Shut your face! My wife is dead. She's dead for no fucking reason except the misfortune of knowing you. I'll never forgive you for this. Never!"


	13. Chapter 13

Anthea stood in the Watson's apartment bouncing a baby in her arms not knowing what the hell to do. Her phone kept vibrating on the counter in front of her and every time it buzzed with a new message, it moved closer to the edge. Any second it would drop and probably break and then she would be without her lifeline, something she desperately needed now more than ever.

However, she was petrified of disturbing little Bethie Watson who had just settled down after a howling fit.

"Oh, little girl, where is your auntie?" She whispered.

Anthea was out of her element. As an only child whose parents had her in their forties, her experience with children was next to nil. Her phone alerted again with an incoming message. She knew it was important as she'd counted at least four texts in the last five minutes.

A knock sounded at the door. Anthea let out a breath. "Oh, God, at last."

She went quickly to the door and looked out the porthole. She saw a woman who looked an awful lot like John Watson on the other side.

"Um, be just a sec! I have to put down the baby."

"No need," came her muffled reply. "I'll use my key."

Anthea stepped back as a blonde woman, about forty with a grim look on her face entered the apartment. Her blue eyes were red rimmed and she looked as if she'd been crying.

"Hi, I'm Harriet. I'm sorry I am late," She wiped her eyes. "I just received some terrible news."

Anthea chewed her lip. She looked anxiously down at the sleeping baby in her arms. Her little lips were parted slightly and there was a tiny pout on her face. Anthea's heart twisted in her chest.

"Oh, bother," she said softly as she looked up again, "Is Mary not well?"

Harriet covered one side of her face with her hand and leaned into it. She shook her head.

"Sh-she died. Her heart stopped for some unknown reason. John just called me while I was on the way over here. I had to stop and pull over for a spell. It's just terrible, he's in such a state."

Anthea swallowed. Unexpectedly, tears tingled in the back of her eyes. She was normally a machine when confronted with this sort of thing. She could usually separate herself and compartmentalize things but something about holding Mary's warm little bundle in her arms made her choke up. She looked down at the snoozing baby who had just lost someone so terribly important and had no idea.

She sniffed. "What a shitty world it is sometimes. I am so sorry, Harriet. Bethie . . ."

Harriet nodded sadly and extended her arms. "Um, w-would you mind if I held my niece now?"

"Oh, yes, of course. I apologize."

Reluctantly, Anthea stepped towards Harriet. Bethie emitted a small gurgle and a squeak of protest and tried to snuggle against her chest. She held her breath and placed the baby gently in her aunt's arms. Anthea felt inexplicably bereft as soon as she let go. She turned quickly and grabbed her phone, then brushed a tear from her eye. She swiped through the messages on her screen. Mycroft had been trying to reach her.

 _Are you still at the Watson's apartment?_

 _Where are you?_

 _It is urgent that you contact me as soon as possible. You may be in danger._

 _I am heading over there now._

Bang!

Anthea jumped as the front door of the apartment burst open and two men clad in black brandishing guns strode in. Harriet made a yelp and stepped back. When the two men saw Anthea, their arms dropped.

"Hello, fellas," she murmured. "A little overkill don't you think?"

"Boss' orders," One shrugged.

Mycroft stepped into the flat then, his face pensive. When he looked at her, she saw him let out a long breath. However, if he was relieved it was short-lived. His face darkened.

"Why didn't you answer my messages?" He tapped his umbrella against the floor.

She buttoned her blazer and smoothed her hands over its grey fabric. Her chin tilted up.

"I am sorry, boss. I was unable to get to my phone."

Anthea was hit by an onset of melancholy. She blinked away tears. Mycroft's eyes narrowed and they flicked over her face. His brow wrinkled then he stepped closer as if to confirm something.

"You've heard," he murmured, then looked at Harriet. "My condolences, Ms. Watson."

Harriet blinked and dipped her head once. "Thank-you."

"I have come to remove you all from this flat," Mycroft straightened. "Mary's death is as of yet, unexplained and my brother Sherrinford remains at large. Harriet, I do not think you should take anything from here until we determine it is safe. I'll have my people purchase whatever you need to care for your niece. Would you like somewhere to stay or to return home?"

"I-I would like to go home."

"Fair enough. I will assign you a security detail. Do you need any help with your charge?"

"No, I'll manage. Mr. Holmes, what's happening with John?"

Mycroft tightened his grip on his umbrella and cast his eyes downwards briefly. "He is sedated at present. I assume he will want to be with family when he wakes. I will arrange for him to be delivered to your home."

Bethie chose that moment to stir and cry.

"Shall we go?" Mycroft gestured to the door.

* * *

Anthea looked away from the flashing lights outside the window of Mycroft's car to the blank mask of his face.

"This is not the way to my flat."

His hands stiffened over the hook of his umbrella and he cleared his throat. "No, I did not think you should go home."

She blinked rapidly. "Oh? And why is that?"

"You know as well as I do how dangerous Sherrinford can be and he has never played nice. He may want to kick sand in my face and take my toys, which means he could take an interest in you."

Mycroft's eyes made the mistake of assessing the length of her skirt. He looked away suddenly as if surprised by where his gaze had been. Anthea uncrossed her arms and pulled at her skirt to prevent it from riding any farther up. Her face felt hot.

"I am not one of your toys, Mycroft!"

He looked out through the window guiltily. "Ah, well, you know what I mean."

"Do I?" She arched a brow.

The car pulled to a stop outside a residence she knew very well. She didn't say a word, just exited the vehicle with an angry sigh and walked quickly towards the front doors of Mycroft's apartment building. He followed. She could hear him skipping every second step as he tried to catch up with her. It wasn't until they had ridden the elevator to his floor and stood outside the entry to his flat that Mycroft spoke again.

"Are you alright, Anthea? You have been unusually antagonistic the past hour."

Her hands clenched at her sides as she gazed at him. He was almost unreadable, as always. Was he concerned for her? Is that why he asked? So long she had steeled herself against his indifference that she only now understood how cold she had become. A thought that had begun hours earlier rolled over her like a river finally breaching its banks. She realized then that she wanted more from her life and from him.

"No, I am not alright."

Mycroft's mouth went slack. A wrinkle slashed across his brow. He clicked his teeth together.

"Oh, um, well . . .I-"

She grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket and jerked him forwards before he could finish his thought. He stumbled towards her in surprise. His umbrella clattered to the floor as he flung a hand out to catch himself. Anthea made the sound of an 'oof' as she fell back and impacted something hard. When she looked up into his cerulean colored eyes, she found herself pinned between his chest and the wall.

He panted, winded by the collision. "My Lord, what has gotten into you?"

She didn't answer. Her eyes searched his face. She felt a falling sensation in her stomach. All she saw was confusion in his expression. Oh, she wanted to kick herself because it seemed she had made a terrible miscalculation. Then, unexpectedly, Mycroft gulped down a ragged breath. She watched as his eyes flitted to her lips.

It was now or never.

"Kiss me, Mycroft."

He licked his lips. "W-what?"

"You heard me."

Tiny spasms made the corners of his mouth tremor. He shook his head as if to rebuff her but moved in her direction anyways. With a little moan of frustration, she closed the distance between them and kissed him hard. Her hands slid around his middle, over his vest and beneath his jacket and held him tightly.

She wasn't sure what he would do but was shocked and thrilled when his hand came off the wall and wrapped around her waist. Then, he was kissing her back just as fiercely. His free hand crept up into her hair and he intertwined his fingers in the tresses at the base of her neck. A moment later he tugged her head back gently and kissed down her jaw and along the side of her neck. She felt his teeth drag against her collarbone then he pressed his lips against her throat.

Her fingers popped open the buttons of his vest and sought skin contact between the plackets where his shirt came together. He exhaled sharply.

"This is not something we should even be considering," he muttered.

She ran her tongue over each one of her teeth. "But you don't want me to stop."

"No," he grumbled.

He raised his head and pressed a soft kiss against her lips. "Anthea, you do know that this -this _complicates_ things."

"Yes, but I am an expert at complicated things," She cupped the side of his face. "Let _me_ worry about it."


	14. Chapter 14

"Mary's death _is_ my fault."

Molly reached for Sherlock's hand in the cab but he pulled it away. He may as well have stabbed her in the heart. She folded her trembling hands back together in her lap and stared down at them.

"It's not your fault. How can it be your fault?" Her voice shook.

"Molly, don't be dense," he bit out.

She fell silent. She bit the inside of her lip to prevent it from trembling. The knife twisted deeper.

"I have been lost in the weeds for far too long," he muttered to no one in particular. "Ill-advised. Misdirected. Distracted."

Molly winced and gulped down tears. What an incredibly long day it had been with emotional swings that had come at her like severe turbulence. It was now past 1 am and the sky outside the cab was blacker than black as if all natural light had gone out of the world. She was feeling thin and strained. Sherlock had been ice cold to her since the moment they found out about Mary's death earlier that evening. Distracted? He must blame her in some part for Mary's passing. She was gutted because she too had lost Mary. When she closed her eyes, she could see her face as it had been when they spoke at the baby shower – kind, concerned, but most of all optimistic about life. It didn't seem fair that Mary, a new mother and loving wife, should die while Molly Hooper got to go on enjoying whatever it was she called a life.

Soon, they were stopped in front of the Connaught. Molly glared out the window at the opulent hotel. The glow from its rows of lights and warmly lit windows beckoned but she knew no comfort was contained within. Only fantasy hid behind its walls and that was all it would ever be. Sherlock's frosty demeanor and choice of words were quickly dispelling any hope she had for more. Molly felt her hackles raise. Perhaps she was the source of his distraction but she would not be his punching bag. She loved him, he was a great man, but he was wrong to make her feel like a spent tissue.

"Well, have a grand time here, Mr. Holmes."

His head whipped in her direction. "What are you talking about?"

"I too need to get out of the weeds, so to speak. I am going home."

"You are not!"

"I am."

"Molly . . ."

"No, you listen, Sherlock Holmes. I am thirty-four years old. I'm an adult and I actually do not belong to you. I have just had the privilege of outliving another person in my life and I want to go home. I want to see my cat and wear my pajamas and eat my goddamn ice cream a-and cry, fucking c-cry!"

Sherlock's nostrils flared. He stared at her a moment then rapped on the glass partition separating them from the driver. The driver slid it open.

"That'll be 15 quid."

"Change of plans, we are going to 47 Sampson street."

"Suit yourself."

Molly huffed in breath. "You are not staying with me."

He seemed ready for an argument but only squinted and wrinkled his nose once. "Clearly."

Five minutes later they pulled up in front of Molly's apartment building. She looked at Sherlock before she exited the cab but he was busy on his phone. She hesitated, wishing he would do something to show he cared, even a longing look would be welcomed at this point but he was occupied composing a text. She thought she saw his cheek twitch and his finger tremor against the screen of his phone as she studied him but each passed in such a flash she couldn't be sure what she saw.

"The meter is running," Sherlock said gruffly.

His tactless words stung like a glass of water thrown in her face. She grabbed a wad of bills, threw them on the seat and stumbled out of the cab onto the sidewalk as it sped away. She tripped as she stepped onto the sidewalk. Vaguely, she heard something from her bag clatter to the ground but she could only stare after the cab with tears in her eyes. She ached for Sherlock, even now, but he never did anything in half-measures including shredding her heart.

"Oy, Miss?"

Molly turned her head searching for the sound of the voice.

"Miss?"

She found herself looking into the eyes of the homeless man who used the lane next to her flat his home. She wiped away tears as she watched his hand extend. She experienced a moment of panic just before he spoke.

"You dropped your phone, Miss."

Molly glanced down at her open bag. "Oh, thank-you so much."

She managed a sad smile for him as she took her phone. He was younger than she had thought, likely no more than twenty. He had large, bright eyes and spiky black hair poking out from under a ratty wool toque. He was quite tall too and lean, very lean by the way his clothes hung off him. She'd been regularly leaving a few crisps and the odd granola bar on top of his makeshift camp but clearly, he needed more sustenance. She hoped he liked turkey sandwiches.

"Are you alright? Did that wanker in the cab give you a hard time?" He asked.

"I'm fine, it's nothing."

He winked at her. "Alright. Well, just say the word and I'll jump him next time 'e comes 'round. He looks like the type who gets 'is way more than 'e ought."

Molly's face flushed hot. "Erm, that won't be necessary. I don't think you'll see him again."

The lad grinned. His teeth were in much better condition than she would have imagined.

"I don't know 'bout that," he twitched his brows. "Offer still stands. I can pinch 'is wallet and run up a credit card bill before 'e even knew 'twas missin'. You just gimme a nod and it'll be done."

Molly shook her head. "Oh, God, please don't. Thank-you, though."

He laughed. "Go on then, get inside. These streets are no place for a lady like you."

She gave him a hard look. "They're no place for you either."

He dipped his head and smirked. "Yes, ma'am."

Then, he turned and headed towards the alley. Molly hiked her bag on her shoulder and hurried to her flat. She was past due for that cry.

* * *

Two days later, Molly was back at work but felt as if she'd been on extended leave. Everything seemed different; the hospital was too normal somehow. The activity around her seemed incongruent to the recent happenings in her life. Everyone went about their business like drones in a hive of bees.

However, she was glad to be able to return to her routine out of the way in the basement of Bart's. Even though the lights were too bright and every sound echoed to remind her of her lonely state, she could at least pass the time on automatic pilot rather than dwell on the misery of the last 48 hours.

The day before had been a nightmare. She had thought she would not hear from Sherlock but he did call. However, it had been far from a pleasant experience.

"You need to go to Bart's. Mary is scheduled for an autopsy this morning."

Molly had almost stopped breathing. "What? N-no!"

She didn't want one of the last memories of her friend to include sawing through her breastplate.

"Molly, you are the most competent pathologist at Bart's. You need to get a grip on yourself and do what is needed. You cannot recuse yourself strictly because you have . . . _feelings_. You need to be a professional and find out how she died."

Molly wished she had one of those old-fashioned dumbbell phones so she could smash it down several times on its cradle. She gripped her cellphone so hard she heard it creak along one of its seams.

"I am being a professional, y-you asshole! I cannot work on someone I had an emotional attachment to, it's a conflict of interest. I would be a wreck. I could miss something so don't you dare accuse me of being unprofessional. I know what that means better than you." And for good measure, she couldn't help saying it again. "Asshole!"

Sherlock had hung up then which incensed her because he denied her the satisfaction of doing so. She thought that was the end of that but then she fielded calls all day from various people. It seemed for a time she might not be given a choice and actually have to cut up her friend. Sherlock had thrown everything he had at manipulating the situation to his preferences but in the end, it was fruitless.

"Okay, Molly, you can stop worrying about this. It's out of our hands," Mike Stamford, her boss, had finally told her. "John Watson has made a written demand via a lawyer to have a different facility examine his wife. I'm sorry, Molly, he has explicitly requested that you are not to be involved in any further dealings in this matter."

That bit of news hurt, that John would single her out. "Oh. Did h-he say why?"

Mike coughed. "I cannot divulge that but Molly, off the record, stay out of this. I have let things slide when it comes to your little indulgences regarding Sherlock Holmes but I will not have this hospital sued or subjected to an inquest because of your fondness for that man. No extra tests, you understand?"

"I do. Mike, I'm sorry for all this."

"No, don't apologize. You're not the one tying up my phone on a Sunday. You coming in as scheduled tomorrow? I will understand if you need a couple days."

"I am, Mike. To be honest, I'd rather work than sit at home with my own thoughts."

So, she was back to work but despite her best efforts, her thoughts had not stayed behind at home. She was surrounded by them and every time her focus drifted from the task at hand, they elbowed in to wreak havoc on her sensibilities.

She alternated between hot and cold. One moment she could feel Sherlock's lips on her body, her nipples would tingle, the next she flinched as she recalled the chill in his eyes. Then she would think about Mary and Bethie and her vision would swim. In fact, she was having one of those moments when the lights in the lab fluttered.

She was filling out some forms at the old desktop in the back of the lab when the lights dipped again, then blacked out. The lab was plunged into darkness for several seconds, enough even for all the buzzing of the various electronic lab instruments to wind down. Molly waited a moment but the lights didn't immediately come back on. She stood up from the desk and started fumbling towards the exit. If there were a hospital-wide outage, she might be needed upstairs to help with patients.

"Crap!" She whispered into the blackness when she bumped into a counter.

The lights flared up again and the lab came to life but Molly was not alone.

"Ack!" She squealed as a figure dressed in black stood near the entrance of the lab.

"Hello there, Dr. Hooper," Sherrinford Holmes said with a slick smile. "How are you this fine day?"

Molly sprang back, too surprised to speak for a spell. Even at this distance, Sherrinford's vivid blue-eyed stare was unnerving. He reminded her a lot of Jim Moriarty in the way he seemed to reign back every movement as he made his way towards where she stood rooted. He looked around the lab with boredom. He was counting again, cataloging each piece of equipment like some sort of auditor. His eyes met hers with a squint. Some of his mannerisms were too much like his brothers, though, which strangely put her more at ease.

"Everything just as it should be," He said through his teeth. "Except for you. Ah, you've been a project, Dr. Hooper, I've been devouring everything about you."

He picked at his teeth with his pinky nail. "It's been a bit bland, however. Like stale toast without spread."

Molly pressed her lips together. She straightened and stuck her hands in her pockets. She fingered the phone in her pocket, wondering if there was a way she might surreptitiously alert Sherlock.

Sherrinford waved his hand. "No need for that, Dr. Hooper. You have nothing to worry about at present."

"It's Molly."

A crease appeared between his brows. He looked down for a second. A quiver coursed through his body.

"Molly," he ground out.

Then he was looking at her with one of his false smiles again. If he weren't so (for lack of a better word) creepy, she might be a lot more struck by his handsome face. He did look an awful lot like Mycroft but was far more arresting akin to Sherlock with well-defined cheekbones and a narrow yet manly jaw. His teeth were perfectly straight and his lips turned upwards as if he were privileged with a secret joke.

"How can I help you, Mr. Holmes?" Molly asked at last.

He was only a few feet from her then. He leaned one hip against the counter next to him and crossed his arms elegantly. She couldn't help noticing the well-manicured state of his fingers. She relaxed then. This was not a man who did anything himself, like say – strangling a pathologist in her lab.

"I just want to learn more about you, Molly," he slid closer. "You know, spend some time with you."

She laughed nervously. "Why?"

His left eye ticked. "Well, no doubt my brothers have tried to educate you about me."

"Yes, though it didn't make a lot of sense. You're some sort of . . . macro?"

Sherrinford threw back his head and laughed aloud. "Priceless, as if I could be so narrowly defined. Hmph, they really are cute sometimes."

Molly frowned. "So you're not one of these macros, Mr. Holmes, . . ."

He surprised her then by reaching forward and giving a little tug on her hair. He rolled a few follicles between his fingers before his hand dropped again. Molly felt like a culture underneath his microscope.

"A macro is a term Mycroft made up to categorize people with extraordinary gifts, like Stephen Hawkings or Andrew Wiles."

"Or Albert Einstein?"

He scoffed. "Hardly! Einstein was not a macro. He was irrational. He believed in God."

Anger stirred Molly's blood. "Why is a person irrational if they believe in God?"

Sherrinford's hand flew to his head and he sucked in a breath as he winced. "W-what are you blathering about? You can't believe in God, you're a scientist and a researcher, well, a passably competent one though your papers could use some work. You've seen death, Doctor Hooper. You know there's nothing beyond it. God doesn't exist."

Molly gritted her teeth. "How do you know?"

She watched him reach for his head again.

"I know . . ."

Molly stared him down. Sherrinford was right about one thing. She didn't believe in God, but her father had and she would be damned if she let him insult someone so dear.

"You don't know. Despite your so-called extraordinary gifts, you don't know any better than the rest of us dimwits. You've chosen to believe that for your own reasons but don't dare think yourself superior because you made that choice."

He turned his head with a crick. Frustration unravelled his calm façade. "I don't know why I am bothering to say this but no religion on earth has laid out anything even remotely coherent."

"No, but religion and faith are different, Mr. Holmes. You haven't ever proved anything yourself, have you? You haven't carried out experiments or done the research you hold in such esteem, you've relied on the information of others. How are the conclusions you draw from other people's opinions any different from a man who believes his pastor?"

"Because of what I am!"

"What's that? An ass?"

Sherrinford ran his hand through his hair, disheveling it. He intruded into Molly's space then, his breath scalded her face. He appeared ready to throttle her which made Molly shake. She shouldn't have argued with this man, truly, she didn't know him or his capacity for violence. He might just strangle her right then and there. He could even be the mastermind behind Mary's death. What had possessed her to antagonize him?

A light seemed to switch in his head and he calmed. He stepped back. "Oh, I do like this. Now I am starting to get an idea why my little brother is so smitten with you!"

She clenched her teeth. "You don't know anything."

He shook his head with apparent glee. "That's just the thing, I do know, Miss Molly, or rather I will know. It's just taking me longer to catch up. You could benefit from my, mm . . . talents."

"You should leave, really."

He rubbed his hands together. "I can give you what you want. I can give you answers."

"Not interested."

He leaned closer again. "No? You don't want to know the future, Molly Hooper? You don't want to know if you'll end up with your prince charming. Come now, what if I promised you freedom from the burden of ignorance? What would you do? What would you do _differently_?"

Molly trembled where she stood. "Nothing."

A crazed look widened his eyes before he clenched his fists and pressed them against his sockets.

"What?"

"Nothing. I don't want to shoulder any of your burden. Please leave, Mr. Holmes. Go start a war or something but leave me alone. I really don't matter and that is probably why you have overlooked me."

He snapped then. His hands were on her throat before she could react. However, they were vibrating. He stared down at her wild-eyed but instead of anger she saw fear. A single bead of sweat traced a path down his temple. He tightened his grip on her neck. She closed her eyes, tears squeezed out and ran hot down her cheeks.

"I will not tolerate this, Molly Hooper. I will not let them find a way to send me back to rot. I've dominoes set, they only need be nudged and a hell like the world has never seen will be unleashed. You tell Mycroft I will scorch this country black before I let him ensnare me again," He said hoarsely. "And let Sherlock know I will leave a trail like meteorite through his life if he keeps interfering in my plans."

Molly nodded in agreement. Sherrinford released his hold. He adjusted his suit and smoothed his hair back in place. His eyes danced over her face. He skimmed a finger along her neck where her skin felt raw and chaffed. She was almost certain his rough handling had resulted in red marks.

"I must say, Molly, this color suits you. I've never personally handled the merchandise before but I find myself liking it."


	15. Chapter 15

Molly blinked. Air return to her starved lungs. Her leaden feet lightened and she edged away from Sherrinford. She wanted to run but he stood between her and the lab's exit and she didn't think she'd make it, especially since she still felt winded.

He grinned. "Don't bother, you wouldn't get far."

Her lungs prickled as she drew in each breath. Her voice came out wispy like a snuffed candle. "Please, I am sorry for anything I said. I say stupid things all the time. I-I run at the mouth, to be honest."

Sherrinford's glacial smile sent a shiver through Molly. She didn't understand how his mood could change so quickly from white-hot anger to sub-zero coolness. He checked a rather expensive looking timepiece on his wrist before glancing up.

"Hush, now, Miss Molly. While it's tempting to see if I can make that fetching rose color about your neck appear other places, I do not have the time."

Molly shrank back as he moved towards her one last time.

"You should rethink my proposal, my little philosopher," he flicked the end of her nose, "because I offer you deliverance. Sherlock is a false idol. Ask him sometime about how he razed my library. Ask him to convince you that he was just and moral in the execution of his duties. I think you'll find your faith tested."

Sherrinford gave her one last saccharine smile. He spun slowly away and then sauntered towards the door. He paused as his hand fell on the handle.

"Good afternoon, Molly Hooper."

Molly collapsed to the floor sobbing the instant he left. Hiccupping, she reached into her pocket to retrieve her phone. When she looked at it through bleary eyes, she saw that the video app was recording. She stopped it and played it back. Somehow, she had inadvertently captured their entire exchange.

She stared at her phone for a few seconds. Her fingers felt numb and clumsy and she was starting to feel cold but also sweaty. She experienced a pain in her chest and began wheezing. It took her several attempts to compose a coherent message. She sent it off to Sherlock.

 _Sherrinford visited. I will be upstairs getting checked out if you have any questions._

Then she called the hospital's emergency security number.

"H-hello," she whispered when a young man answered, "I'm Dr. Hooper. I work downstairs in pathology. I've just been attacked. C-can you please send someone to help me?"

* * *

Molly stared out the hospital room window feeling scattered not unlike the clouds above her in the stratosphere being shorn apart by passing jets. She was a fraud, really, to lie there as if she were really in medical distress. Her injuries were mental, at best.

She heard the door open behind her and tensed up. She clutched a wad of the thin hospital blanket against her chest. Visions of Sherrinford Holmes sneaking up behind her and finishing what he started sent a violent shiver through her body. She should roll over but the bit of sedative a nurse had administered when she first arrived made her feel listless.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a dark figure round the end of the narrow bed. She closed her eyes tightly. Footfalls continued deliberately until she sensed a change in light through her lids. Whomever it was now stood between her and the window.

"Molly."

She opened her eyes to see Sherlock standing like a black monolith. His expression above his upturned collar was stoic. He assessed her for several seconds. She unfolded somewhat, letting her grip on the blanket relax and her chin rise up from her chest. His eyes glanced down at her neck briefly. Something rippled across his face like a coy swimming just beneath the surface of a pond. His left eyelid contracted in a minor spasm. Her vision began to swim again as she looked up at him. She didn't want to erupt in tears. She wanted to be strong and unaffected by what had happened but his all-knowing gaze caused her to unravel. She shuddered as a sob percolated and shook her body.

Sherlock's jaw slackened then and he drew in a stiff breath. He half turned, snapped back and a second later his Belstaff hit the floor. He slowly collapsed until he leaned on his knees with his head hanging down. When he looked at her again, his eyes had a sheen.

"Molly," He sounded winded, "I cannot . . . ahem, c-cannot, mm-mm . . . cannot b-breath, actually."

He tugged at his collar and drew in a few noisy inhalations. "Are you w-well? Oh, Christ, what am I going on about? You're obviously not. There are red marks about your neck so he throttled you, for at least a minute. He varied his pressure several times, tightening as his mental faculties slipped. That is why you suffered skin abrasions and petechial hemorrhaging beneath the subcutaneous surface of your skin . . ."

"Sherlock, shut up."

His mouth snapped closed in a grim line. Molly rose to a sitting position, dangled her feet over the edge of the bed and stared down at him. He was disgustingly endearing.

"You're rambling."

He nodded. "Apologies, I could not think of a single appropriate thing to say."

She raised her brows. "So, you thought you'd say everything?"

Sherlock rose to his feet over her. He scrutinized her face, then his hand shakily lifted and his fingers feathered her cheek.

"Molly, I . . ."

Molly felt a gust of air at her back and clenched her teeth. Sherlock's hand fell like a stone. Someone with the worst timing ever entered the room. She shuffled around to see a familiar brunette with a faint smirk waltz into the room.

"Anthea."

She dipped her head. "Sherlock."

"Where's your keeper?"

She wrinkled her nose and smiled through her teeth. "Positing a new career path for one of our security teams, I think. He'll be here shortly."

Anthea strode to a chair in the corner and took a seat with her cell in her hands.

"Do you mind?" She smiled.

Sherlock huffed. He looked at Molly who shrugged. He picked up his jacket from the floor and shook it out. Just as he slung it over a chair, Mycroft stepped into the room.

Molly's eyes flicked to Anthea, She crossed her legs and tucked them under the chair as she looked at Mycroft. A small smile played across her lips as their gazes intermingled. Mycroft appeared to swallow then and flush. He averted his gaze away from his employee to Molly.

"Hello, Dr. Hooper, sorry that we keep meeting this way."

"Erm, it's fine."

Sherlock seemed to notice the same silent message that went between the pair as Molly had. Molly watched Sherlock's eyes narrow.

"Why are the buttons on your vest misaligned?" He asked.

Mycroft's face went a brilliant shade of pink. Molly glanced quickly to Anthea who raised her cell phone almost directly in front of her face and typed away furiously. Sherlock's eyes followed the same path.

"Taken up aquaculture recently, Mycroft?" He bit out.

Mycroft poked his lips to one side and looked down a moment. He tucked his umbrella under his arm before his gaze lifted to Molly.

"Mm, anyways, I hear you had a visit from our dear brother, Sherrinford. I beg your forgiveness, Dr. Hooper. I assure you, his apprehension is our government's top priority but he is, you must appreciate, difficult to apprehend."

She pressed her lips together. "I understand."

"Can you tell us what happened, if it's not too difficult for you?"

Molly retrieved her mobile. "I can do better than that, actually."

She opened the video file she'd recorded. "I accidently triggered my phone when he came in. It was in my pocket so there's nothing to see but you can hear what happened at least."

Sherlock's eyes widened as she activated the recording. When Sherrinford's voice hissed from the speaker, he let out a sharp exhale.

"Oh, good girl, Molly."

He stared intently down at the cell as it played the video. Every so often his lips would twitch or his eyes flare. When they reached the loud swishes and thumps that denoted the moments when Sherrinford attacked her, his brows drew together and his hands clenched on his lap.

Then, the recording faded but Sherrinford's last words rang out clear.

" _. . . Sherlock is a false idol. Ask him sometime about how he razed my library. Ask him to convince you that he was just and moral in the execution of his duties. I think you'll find your faith tested."_

Molly looked at Sherlock but felt a little ashamed that she wanted to ask him for an explanation. She should disregard Sherrinford's whole rant but surprisingly, Sherlock paled and regarded Mycroft. A lump moved in his throat. She hated that he looked guilty.

"What did he mean, Sherlock? Is there something I should know?"

Mycroft cut her off. "No, Dr. Hooper, Sherrinford is a master manipulator. Disregard everything he said."

"Sherlock?" Her voice sounded reedy in her own ears.

He gave his head a shake as if to clear a stray thought. His eyes kept darting to Mycroft.

"Contain yourself, little brother! Doctor, please do not ask any more about this, it is a matter of national security and frankly, none of your concern. Now, you've been very brave today. You should rest. I will ensure you are better protected in the future."

Molly didn't respond but set her eyes on Sherlock. One way or the other, she would have her answers.


	16. Chapter 16

"What? What is it? God, Sherlock, stop looking at me as if I'm made of glass. I assure you, I am not about to crack up."

Molly hopped off the hospital bed and slipped her shoes on. Her eyes scanned the room for her jacket. She just wanted to get out of there. She looked at him anxiously.

"Well?"

Sherlock gave a little shake of his head. "No, Molly, I am, in fact, quite cognisant of the opposite. You seem to be, ah, less inclined to be persuaded lately."

She raised her brows. "You mean, I'm less of a pushover?"

He looked sideways and exhaled. "There is no right way to answer that question."

Molly tilted her head as she scrutinized Sherlock. The wheels were grinding in his head so forcefully she could almost hear them.

"What do you want, Sherlock?"

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and rocked back and forth on his feet. When she moved he leaped into action. He grabbed her jacket from the hook on the back of the door, shook it out, and held it up as she slipped into it. He stepped closer to adjust her collar. She drew in a shaky breath as his fingers brushed the back of her neck. It was too much for her to resist him anymore. After several uneasy hours of feeling like she would go out of her mind, she finally felt safe. She leaned back into him.

"Molly," he mumbled.

He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and buried his face in her hair. She held onto his hands that were folded over her chest and let his warmth envelop her. She closed her eyes and tried to commit every detail to memory. She wished she had a mind palace so she could lock this moment away and visit it any time she wished. He smelled wonderful, his cologne was a unique mix of fresh split wood and distant marketplace spices. His body was strong and solid, a refuge when the world around her felt like it was spinning.

"I want to suggest something," he murmured. "But I do not know how to say it without sounding like I am telling you to do it . . . even though I think you should do it."

Molly laughed softly. "I suppose you could just ask, um - nicely that is."

"A novel idea," he purred. "Would you come stay with me at Baker Street? It is the only way I can protect you."

She leaned her head back on his shoulder and absorbed his request. Stay with him at his house? Her mind whirled. She couldn't help wondering if that was a terrible idea. She still had so many questions and concerns about everything that had been going on lately. Not to mention, she desperately wanted to feel in control of something and she would be at his mercy there . . . not that that was entirely a bad thing . . .

"I gather you are not inclined to heed my advice."

She gripped his hands. "No, I was waiting for the magic word."

"Mm, abracadabra?" His lips moved at her temple as he spoke.

"Not quite."

He puffed out a breath. "Really?"

She wriggled her shoulders, snuggling into his embrace. "Yes, I want to hear you beg me, Sherlock."

His chest rumbled at her back then his lips brushed her ear. "Please, Molly."

She turned in his arms. He was so incredibly handsome. His bow lips were parted slightly. His pale green eyes looked relaxed but there was a glittering intensity to them.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. I will come home with you."

He pushed a hair from her face. "Good, it will save me the hassle of returning several of your personal items."

Molly frowned. "What? When did you have time for that?"

He smiled. "I enlisted Mycroft's help while you were sleeping. However, he made me pay for it. I promised not to discuss his recent extracurricular activities with Mummy. Actually, we came to kind of a mutual agreement on that score."

Molly shook her head once. "Wait! Wait a minute! You weren't going to accept no for an answer."

He raised his brows. A smile spread lazily across his face.

"Have I ever?"

* * *

Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway of 221 Baker Street wringing her hands when Sherlock and Molly arrived. Molly looked at Sherlock with a quizzical look.

"Did you tell Mrs. Hudson what happened?"

He pursed his lips, then looked around before smiling at her apologetically. "Um, nooo?"

She swatted his arm. "You twat, she's going to treat me like a charity case."

He poked her in the back and pushed her forwards. "Go on, it'll give her something to do. She does so love to fuss."

Molly sighed and put her hand in in Mrs. Hudson's outstretched fingers as she reached the doorway. Mrs. Hudson shook her head and pulled Molly into a hug.

"Oh, you poor little thing. How are you doing, dear?"

Molly managed a wan smile. "I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson. I'm sure Sherlock has exaggerated what happened."

He made a sound. "I never exaggerate."

Mrs. Hudson poked her lips out and frowned at him. "Pssht, don't be you, Sherlock. Come, Molly, I'll make you a cup of tea and maybe you can tend to that critter of yours upstairs. It's been making an awful racket."

Molly's eyes flew to Sherlock. "Toby's here?"

Sherlock lifted his chin and straightened his jacket. "I would hardly leave Tobias somewhere unsafe."

Oh, that sent her heart a flutter. She blinked a couple times at Sherlock and then headed up the stairs with him close behind. At his door, he reached around her and pushed it open. Molly was about to turn around when Toby bounced up to them.

"Rrrr-ooooow, maaaooow!"

Molly scooped Toby up and stepped into the flat, unsure of what to do with herself. "Hi, sweetie, how's my boy?"

It was a bit strange playing domestic with Sherlock in his flat. Mrs. Hudson brought them tea and stayed to chat for a bit. They ordered take away after she left and watched some crap tele that he thoroughly picked apart. She knew he had to be ridiculously bored but he kept looking at her out of the corner of his eye as if checking to see if she was okay like any regular person might. It was lovely and comfortable and probably just what she needed but she was going insane.

Finally, when he rose from his chair and asked her if she'd like a refill on her tea, she snapped.

"Stop it already!"

Sherlock set her tea cup back down. He stretched his neck sideways and smoothed his hair back. Every movement seemed fraught with extra energy he could barely contain.

"What?" He asked innocently.

She stood up and stuck a finger right on one of his shirt buttons. "I told you at the hospital to cut this out. I do not need to be tip-toed around."

He flexed his fingers at his sides. His eyes slanted as he studied her face. "You have suffered an emotional trauma today. I was just attempting to act like a normal, indulgent friend might."

She splayed her fingers over his chest. His breath intake was sharp.

"I do not want normal so stop with the white-glove treatment. I want you to be you. Erm, except maybe for the indulgent part. Yes, I'll take that any day."

His hands gripped her wrists. "Molly . . ."

She wrinkled her nose and squinted up at him. "I'm not going to get the trouble lecture again, am I?"

He started walking her backwards with dark intent in his eyes. "No."

"No?" She stumbled over a wayward shoe.

He snaked an arm around her back. "I don't think it would help."

Sherlock kept shuffling her rearwards until they were shrouded by the darkness of his room. Before her eyes could adjust, his mouth sought hers, muffling her little gasp of surprise. His hands cupped the sides of her face and he thrust his tongue into her mouth. She melted then, like butter left in the microwave too long. Then she came alive and kissed him back as if he was a hit of drugs she'd been denied. Every slide of his warm, wet tongue across hers sent shivers through her body. She was lost, she couldn't stop what was happening if an ice bucket was dumped on their heads.

She could feel it rise in her again, that insatiable need to be possessed by him. Her hands yanked at his shirt, popping open the buttons and exposing the flesh underneath. His body shuddered as she greedily ran her hands over his stomach and around his sides.

"Fifty-five hours," he mumbled against her lips. "Fifty-five hours of hell since I had you, Molly."

"Me too," she whispered.

She honestly didn't want to think about how much their lives had changed in that time. She just wanted for him to make her forget about everything. Her prayers were answered when his hands wrenched at the button of her trousers and they hit the floor with a whoosh. He peeled off her cardigan and shirt leaving her stripped to her bra and panties. Mad with need, she assaulted his clothing. He chuckled as she fought with his belt.

"Let me," he flicked her fingers away as she impatiently tried to assist him.

She made a sound of protest. "But . . ."

"It'll go faster if you just leave well enough alone!"

She heard the telltale slide of metal against metal as the clasp came apart and jerked his belt from his grasp. "Not fast enough."

She kicked his pants aside when he stepped out of them. His shirt flew from the ends of her fingers towards some unknown destination in the dark. Then, it was Sherlock's turn to struggle.

"This is a different bra," he muttered.

"Huh?" She sighed.

She was dying. His heated skin rubbed up against hers as he worked at her fastening. She grabbed his taut arse impatiently needing something to alleviate the fire that burned in her gut.

"Mmph, Molly that is not helping."

His cock was hard against hip. He kissed her again, probably to buy time. She grunted and reached around behind her back. One flick and the bra fell away. Sherlock didn't even bother sliding her panties off, he gripped them like a packet and ripped them along each seam.

She had to bite her lip against a cry wanting to erupt from her throat. That was so incredibly hot, she felt like she could come right then. His hand slid down her stomach to the wet juncture between her thighs.

"I cannot believe how quickly you are ready for me," he probed a finger against her clit.

"Ah, haaa," she licked her lips. "Silly man, I am pretty much like that whenever I am within ten feet of you."

She felt herself being moved backwards again until her legs bumped into the bed. Instead of falling back, she grabbed him around his shoulders and swapped their places before pushing him down. Her eyes had adjusted by then and the dim light reflecting from the living room around the corner illuminated his beautiful body. There really was no spare inch of fat anywhere on him but he wasn't thin. He was just athletically lean with a muscled stomach that rippled as she ran her hands over it. His body jumped as she was finally able to straddle him and encircle his stiff shaft with both hands. Then she scooted backwards a little until she could dip her head and run her tongue over the moistening head of his penis.

"Uuh," his closed his eyes. "Um . . ."

Sherlock cursed she slid his cock into her mouth. She stroked it a few times, wetting it along as much of his length as she could manage. She did that several more times until he was gasping for air and begging her to stop. He clutched the sides of her head and stared down at her with liquid eyes.

"As good as that feels," he murmured. "I really want to bury myself in you, feel you come underneath me again."

Molly nodded. She wasn't going to turn that down. She positioned herself alongside him. He didn't immediately cover her. He spent some time placing kisses along her body, teasing her nipples and stroking her folds until she was quivering like a live wire. He had one finger, then two, plunged deep inside her when his lips slid along her jaw and tickled her ear.

"We are being stupid again, I guess," he whispered.

"Yes, oh!"

"And you haven't taken anything for our first encounter?"

She shook her head. She could barely think.

"Good."

Then, he rolled on top of her and with a quick, hard thrust, penetrated her completely. A tremor surged through his body before he began moving within her. He gripped her shoulders, plunged into her over and over, each time jolting her against the bed. She felt a deep well start to spring up then, a gathering almost painful in its intensity. Each thrust of his member slid deliciously against her insides and she gripped him tightly until the friction begin building pressure. His pace stayed that way, slow yet deliberate, as if he had honed right in on her most sensitive spot and attacked it relentlessly until she was almost clawing at his back.

"Sherlock! Oh, please . . ."

Then he reached between them, his finger pressed down and her well burst like a geyser. She absolutely split apart, shattered and bit her lip as spasms undulated through her body. A million little streams seemed to originate from that same spot, cascading and crashing together and she shook. Sherlock leaned into her, pushing himself into her several more times until grunting and releasing himself. His cock stiffened then twitched several times and she knew he was done. She held onto him, stroking his hair as his breathing calmed.

Sense. Sense had to return then in all its ugliness.

Oh, he was so bad for her. Bad, bad, bad!

And what the hell did he mean by, " _Good"_?


	17. Chapter 17

A chill woke Molly. She rubbed her eyes and looked over at the unoccupied space to her left. There was scant evidence Sherlock was ever in the bed save for a faint imprint on his pillow. She sat up and looked at a clock on his bedside table which read a few minutes past 5 am. She had heard John tease him before about not sleeping but it was strange to actually learn about it firsthand.

She wrapped a sheet around herself and wandered out to the living room. Sherlock sat fully dressed in one of his suits in his chair with his hands propping up his chin. Toby lazed on the top of the chair behind him with one possessive paw on his shoulder. She thought Sherlock was asleep until his eyelids flew open.

"Trouble sleeping?" She asked.

"I don't need a lot of sleep. Why are you up?"

Molly caught her lip between her teeth for a moment. "It was a bit cold."

He nodded slowly. A frown furrowed his brow. She stood there a feeling self-conscious and contemplated whether she should sit down or not. She felt as if she were disturbing him.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled. "Am I bothering you?"

He didn't answer immediately. He stared through her as if she weren't there for several seconds. Then his eyes regarded her blankly.

"What's wrong?" She asked.

He stood up. "I have to go out."

"Really? Right now?"

He strolled past her and grabbed his jacket from a hook by the door. She couldn't believe it. Big red warning lights started flashing insistently in the control room of her mind.

"What's happened?"

He donned his jacket and twisted a scarf around his neck. "It's not your concern."

Molly stared at him. She knew her mouth was parted in surprise because she felt her own breath feather across her lips. He was always so hot and cold but this was beginning to get ridiculous.

 _". . . he only ever does as much as he needs to, doesn't he?"_

She didn't know why Janine's words echoed through her head then but when Molly repeated them to herself, they seemed more significant than they had been at the time.

"Sherlock, I am confused. Why is it that the closer we are physically acquainted, the more distant we become?"

He made a sound of dismissal. "I don't have time for this."

"No, I don't suppose you do."

"Molly, you are just one piece of my life . . ."

"A piece? I'll be a pair if we keep doing what we've been doing."

He twisted his brow with a sardonic look on his face. "I am aware of that. You don't need to remind me."

Molly bit her lip. There was something unsettling in the familiarity of his dismissal. She had experienced this before but on a much smaller scale. Again, Janine's annoying counsel echoed through her thoughts.

 _". . . my heart and my mind are still in disagreement about some moments because he was. That. Good."_

She grabbed his jacket as he turned to leave. He barely turned his head and when he did, it was just to stare at her hand on his sleeve like it was a pesky insect. She drew it back as if burned.

"I understand," she whispered. "I understand it's not been easy, Sherlock, but this is never going to work if you don't trust me with things."

He swung around and advanced on her with a murky look in his eyes. She backed away. There was something menacing in his movements which made her shrink in retreat. She hated that he reminded her of his brother Sherrinford as his gaze scanned critically over her frame.

 _"He's nothing but a machine held together by purpose and function and powered by lies."_

"You could never understand, Molly," he mumbled.

He said it so matter-of-factly, in the same manner she had heard him speak a million times before, but this time it rang shrilly in her ears. It was a wretched thing to hear.

"I have to go." He opened the door. "I will see you later. Mycroft has his best team outside. You should be fine."

Molly watched him leave.

 _". . . Such convincing lies."_

* * *

Only a few hours later, Molly's eyes fell on John across the busy coffee shop. He looked tired, pale and very sad. She swallowed a lump in her throat and turned away for a moment to fan her flushed skin. She patted her hands against her face, steadied her breath and resumed her approach.

"H-hello, John," She said, wishing her voice was stronger.

He jumped up from his seat. "M-Molly."

For a moment, they both stood there, then a flood gate opened. John's eyes welled up with tears. Molly threw her arms around his insubstantial frame and hugged him for all she was worth. It had only been days but he seemed as if he were wasting away.

"Oh, John, I am so sorry, so very sorry."

She felt him gather her closer for a moment. Then, his hold went slack and he deflated into his chair again. "Please sit. Thank-you for coming."

Molly bobbed her head and sat opposite of him. He looked so unkempt. He hadn't shaved recently, his hair was unwashed and he wore a tatty beige jacket over a stained green tee. He must have noticed her appraisal.

"F-forgive my current state. I am having trouble being motivated to do much of anything."

"Including eat?" She probed.

He looked away. "Everything tastes of ashes."

Molly reached across the table and took his hand. "John, you know I would do anything for you, you're my friend. I love you. Sherlock loves you . . ."

John jerked his hand back and balled it into a fist on the table. He squeezed his eyes shut for several moments.

"Don't, Molly, I do not want to talk about Sherlock and I do not want you to tell him I asked for your help."

Molly chewed her lip. "Yes, of course, John, but he's going to know we spoke. I've acquired a shadow, you see."

John looked up with concern. "Yes, I heard about what happened from Greg. Are you alright?"

She touched the base of her neck absentmindedly. "I'm okay, John. A little fright, that's all. I'll be fine. I'm more worried about you. What can I do?"

John rubbed a hand over his face. Then his fingers drummed on the table as he lowered his voice.

"I am sorry I didn't let you examine Mary."

Molly frowned. "What? D-don't be, John. I didn't w-want to do i-it, truly."

"Would you do it now if I asked you?"

"Oh," she felt her eyes go wide, "I didn't expect that . . ."

John's eyes were impossibly sad when he looked up at her with moisture glinting along his lids. His lips quivered.

"I need your help. The autopsy done on her was a complete farce."

Molly's brows drew together. "Where was it performed?"

"Over at University."

Molly made a face. "John, they're usually pretty good over there. The government relies on them for all their big cases . . ."

"Yes, exactly, the government. Molly, the Holmes are all over this despite my efforts to prevent their interference. I feel like Mycroft would cover this all up if he could just to avoid sullying their name."

Molly shook her head vigorously. "John, Sherlock would never let that happen!"

His eyes dropped. "I am not so sure about that."

She swallowed. "I know this is hard, but surely you cannot doubt his love for you after everything he's done. His feelings aren't always apparent, I know this, but his actions are . . . I mean, has he ever given you any reason to think he would behave so duplicitously? Especially at the expense of your friendship?"

John's laugh was humorless. "A million times! Molly, you don't know him like I do. He's capable of great things but also horrific things. I know his reasoning seems so complex. I mean, it's astounding sometimes what he can do but in the end, it's all very simple. He doesn't make decisions based on dynamic concepts like feelings. He boils it down to logic - the binary language of a computer. He chooses a 1 or a 0 based on what advances his agenda. It's cold . . . it can be so cold."

Molly clenched her hands on her lap. "Everyone has such a terrible opinion of him, e-everyone. . ."

The coffee shop buzzed around them. Molly felt at the eye of a storm without its benefit of a calm center.

John tugged at the hair at his temples. "Arg, I know you love him. I know you do. It chokes me that he has taken advantage of that. Look what it's gotten you."

She grimaced. "I am not a child, John. I know what I'm doing."

 _"LIAR!"_ Her inner voice protested. _"Lying, liar, McLiarson!"_

"Don't underestimate him. For the love of God, Molly, it's a mistake everyone makes to their own detriment. Even his brothers, Mycroft and Sherrinford alike, they both underestimate him. They always have."

She took several breaths to tamp down the ire beginning to boil her blood. John closed his eyes briefly. He seemed drained. His voice became barely audible above the din of conversation around them.

"I am sorry. I didn't come here to lecture you. I need your help now Doctor Hooper. I need you to provide me answers. I lost sight of it for a bit but I know you are one of the only people I can rely upon."

She shifted in her seat. "I would love to help you in any way I can but . . ."

"Please, I beg you. They want me to sign a release and send her off to the burners with a heart murmur as her cause of death."

"I-is that what was found?"

He clasped his hands together so forcefully that his knuckles blanched. "Yes, like I said. It was a joke. I'm not even sure that great fat pig of a pathologist, Dr. Werstiff or something, even did more that give her a cursory glance."

She scrunched her nose. "You mean, Dr. Werstein?"

John raised a brow. "You know him?"

She sighed. "Yes, he's not the most thorough examiner. He can be, erm, lazy. Suffice to say, this wouldn't be the first time I've been sought for a second opinion after one of his cases."

John brightened. "Then you'll do it?"

She wrung her hands. She could not refuse him.

"John, I-I will do it on one condition."

"Yes, yes, anything."

She cleared her throat. "You have to trust me. You cannot ask me to d-do this and fling the results back in my face or accuse me of being in cahoots with Sherlock or Mycroft if you do not like what I find. I cannot be dissuaded when it comes to the truth, John, nor would I ever lie to you . . . e-even if asked."

He nodded quickly. "Yes, I know. I do know that. Thank-you. Hopefully, I can arrange everything for later this afternoon."

Silence fell over them for a minute or an hour. It was hard to gauge the time as she tumbled down a rabbit hole of thoughts. After a while, John started tapping on the table with his fingers. She looked up at him.

"If you don't mind my asking, what's going on between you two?" John asked.

Molly's face flamed. "I – ahm, er, I don't know to be honest."

He fidgeted. He kept looking askance. "Have you, ahem, done more than what I saw Saturday? Bollocks! It's none of my business. It's just . . ."

She cast her eyes down. Oh, he had to know. Her face was probably flashing a big neon, _"SEX! SEX! SEX!"_ sign on her forehead.

He cursed. "You have. Quite a bit extra, I imagine. Molly, I don't want to offend you but more than that, I don't want you to be hurt."

"Please, no more lectures! I need to make up my own mind."

"Yes, of course, I'm sorry."

Molly fiddled with an advertisement placard on the table. Her eyes flitted around, looking for something in which she could use as an anchor. They fell to John's hands again for a tick.

She licked her lips nervously. "In order to do that, I need information. Sherrinford alluded to something when he, um, visited. Anyways, Mycroft and Sherlock sort of confirmed it but no one ever told me what happened. He did something, though, didn't he? Sherlock, I mean, he did a b-bad thing. He razed a library or something."

John went very pale. "Oh, Molly, don't ask me about that. You need to hear it from him."

She grabbed his hand. "No, he won't tell me, you know he won't. John, you have to tell me what he did."

John's eyes flew around wildly. He leaned forward. He opened his mouth then shut it again and started shaking his head.

Molly squeezed his hand. "Please, oh, please. I need to know. He's hiding things from me. He's being dishonest. I know it in my heart."

John's voice dropped to a whisper. "God, Molly, I don't know how to tell you this . . . he, mm, ahem, he murdered a man. He shot him unarmed. In cold blood."

Molly started shaking her head. Her face twisted. "No, what? Are you sure? You can't be sure . . ."

"I was there. He thought he was protecting Mary and I but he shouldn't have done it, Molly. He didn't have the right. He acted as judge, juror, and executioner in a matter of seconds. I love the man, I still do, but he's not right in the head if he can give in to that sort of impulse."

Molly staggered to her feet. She didn't want to hear any more. Her world had just been upended again and her heart felt like it was splitting in her chest.

"Oh, Molly, God. I shouldn't have told you. Sorry."

She leaned closer while fighting the urge to collapse against him. "W-who was it? Who?"

John let out a breath. "Charles Augustus Magnussen."


	18. Chapter 18

"Molly Hooper?"

Molly looked up from her seat at the pharmacy.

"Your prescription is ready."

She checked her watch. Oh, she was cutting this close, in fact there was a good chance she was already too late with this particular method as it was less effective the more time that passed. Her next step was a different, less proven set of pills that could stretch the window to five days or insertion of an IUD. She shuddered. She would never do the IUD thing. During one post-mortem she'd done, she discovered an IUD next to the woman's liver. It had punctured the uterine wall and migrated its way to its new home where it cozied up to the gall bladder. A rare occurrence, sure, but not one Molly ever wanted to risk for herself.

Molly paid for her prescriptions and headed out of the pharmacy. While she was at it, she had renewed her regular birth control. She didn't know if she would have need of it again but she'd been so stupid with Sherlock. If she was ever going to get involved with someone again in the future, she should be prepared and that probably meant staying on the pill full time from now on.

Her eyes burned with tears as she hurried towards St. Bart's. She was so fucking forlorn about that but also pissed off as well. She didn't want anyone else. She wanted Sherlock but he was . . . she didn't know what he was! She had thought she did but John's revelation had thrown everything she knew about him into question.

He had murdered a man, John had said, in cold blood. That absolutely broke her heart because he had always been righteous in her mind, a man who sought justice, not vengeance. Her steps faltered along the concrete. She swayed and wobbled over to a nearby retaining wall where she had to sit down. She doubled aver and just started bawling.

How could she be so wrong about him? Images looped through her mind like an old-fashioned reel of 8 mm film. He was lovely, intelligent, and so very loyal to all of them. What had happened? Who had failed him along the way? She searched her thoughts but nothing fit.

 _Nothing fit_. It made her crazy. Sherlock wasn't always an open book to her but there were times when he'd left a window to his soul cracked a bit and she'd seen right through to the heart of him. What she'd seen had been incandescent, so bright in fact it was always hard to look at closely for more than a few seconds. She didn't want to believe him capable of the kind of callousness John had described.

She lifted her head from her hands.

" _. . . if he ever traps you in his web, Molly, you won't have the luxury of perspective."_

Perspective. That's what she needed. She needed to be away from him, even if she would rather carve out her spleen with a rusty spoon. She just didn't know how to go about it. Where could she escape where he would not find her? She needed someone who knew how to deal with the Holmes. She needed Anthea.

She fished her phone from her bag and thumbed through her contact list. When she found Anthea's number, she quickly composed a message and sent it off.

 _I need respite from a certain consulting detective. Is that something you could do? -M_

Molly stared down at her phone for several seconds. She was about to put it back in her pocket when it jingled with a reply.

 _Yes. I've never met a Holmes I can't fool, at least temporarily. When would you like your reprieve? -A_

 _Tonight. I have something to do first though. Can it be arranged by five pm? –M_

 _And I thought you were going to challenge me! I could have you instated as minor monarchy by five. –A_

 _A mini-break is sufficient, thank-you. –M_

 _Alright. Consider it done. One last question, do you prefer an ambient outside temperature north or south of 72 degrees F? –A_

 _Definitely North. –M_

 _Excellent. Instructions to follow. –A_

Molly rose shakily to her feet. She pulled her bag up on her shoulder and started planting one foot in front of the other. She took a few breaths and willed herself into business mode. Mary awaited her at St. Bart's. She needed to do right by her friend and which meant putting her own concerns on the back burner.

* * *

Molly stared anxiously down at the black body bag containing her friend. These bags always opened from the top down and she knew the first thing she'd see was Mary's face - but it wouldn't be her face. It would be the face of death. To Molly, it always looked a bit like putty molded over a frame. Perhaps that's why some referred to it as the mask of death. She rubbed her fingers and thumbs together to massage out the tremors that had unsteadied her normally reliable hands. It was now or never.

She averted her eyes as she grasped the zip and quickly opened the bag all the way to the end. Thus, she saw Mary's toes first. Several of which appeared to have been broken at some point in her brief life. It was this discovery and resulting curiosity that finally spurred Molly into her emotionless analyst mode.

Straight away, it was evident that a proper postmortem hadn't been done. Mary's body appeared untouched. Molly checked the notes provided from the previous examination.

" _Valve leakage detected while patient still alive in ER. Ultrasound on heart revealed mild deformity of pulmonary valve. Subsequent blood work indicates slightly deficient levels of potassium. Cause of death – cardiac arrest due to arrhythmia in conjunction with undiagnosed heart defect."_

Molly frowned. While that diagnoses could certainly be correct, those few bits of information were hardly conclusive. Ultrasounds were notoriously unreliable as diagnostic tools for this kind of thing. Mary's heart beat could have been irregular for many reasons and the only proper way to confirm a defect was to examine the heart.

When she finished her exterior examination of Mary, she realized how little she knew about her friend. Mary's past injuries appeared to include puncture wounds from having been stabbed, two different instances where she had been shot, a saucer sized burn beneath her left shoulder blade, a broken collarbone, surgery to repair probable torn tendons in her right knee and innumerable less serious cuts and abrasions. She had same kind of injuries Molly had seen on prisoners of war, not a nurse.

" _. . . If you ever need anyone knocked off, let me know!"_

Molly thought Mary had just been making a rather morbid joke at her baby shower. Maybe she had been serious. Molly shook her head. Was no one in her life who they seemed to be?

Next, Molly began her internal examination. Once she had opened Mary's chest cavity and started her examination of her heart, she knew something was very wrong. There was a tell-tale darkening to part of the muscle on the left side of Mary's heart. She hadn't died from an arrhythmia or murmur, she'd had a massive heart attack.

* * *

"So?"

Molly's fingers paused over her keyboard. One syllable uttered in a rolling baritone voice and she was undone. She lowered her hands to her lap. When she looked up, her dark angel stood about ten feet away with all the swirling energy of a black hole. She felt irresistibly sucked in. Had it only been this morning since she'd seen Sherlock? It felt like a lifetime ago.

"Blood clot," she whispered. "A massive blood clot had formed in her leg. A piece of it broke off and travelled to her heart. She died from a colossal coronary event. I'm awaiting blood work to rule a few things out but it appears as if it's a complication due to . . ."

Her words trailed off. Sherlock walked towards where she was seated with furrowed brows. His hand was curled into a fist at his side.

"Order a screen for Cyklokapron."

Molly's mind raced. "You mean, erm, t-tranexamic acid?"

It was a drug normally administered to prevent bleeding during surgeries or to people who might otherwise have bleeding disorders. Given the right conditions, it could form life threatening blood clots.

Sherlock nodded grimly. "Mycroft's team found traces of it in a powdery substance on the floor of John and Mary's flat. It's possible Mary was being dosed without her knowledge."

Molly touched her hand to her forehead. "But . . . that's diabolical and not even a guaranteed method to kill someone. Do you think Sherrinford found some way to slip this to her over an extended period? Sherlock, it's a one in a million shot that it would work . . ."

"He would do it, Molly, just to see if it worked. Somehow, he must have figured out she had the risk factors and timed it just right. I need to find out how he did it."

A ragged breath left Molly's body. "Dominoes. He said he could nudge dominoes but I didn't believe him. It's sick. It's sick, Sherlock, to dissect a person's life like that and torture them in that way. Is he going to kill us all in such a manner? Find our hidden flaws and exploit them? My mother died of uterine cancer. Is he going to find a way to set that off in my body?"

Sherlock went very pale. "I won't let him hurt you."

Molly threw her hands up and finally got to her feet. "How? How are you going to stop him? Kill him? Are you going to shoot him in the head when he least suspects it?"

Sherlock looked as if he had just been struck in the face. He blinked a couple of times and stepped backwards. He sounded suffocated when he spoke.

"What did John tell you?"

She stared at him for several moments trying to gauge his reaction. He was definitely surprised, guilty, and preparing . . . preparing to run away it looked like.

"He told me you murdered Charles Magnussen. Is that true?"

Sherlock cursed and cast his glance down and away. His eyes scanned back and forth quickly as if he were having an argument with himself.

Molly felt her eyes mist. "Sherlock, tell me it isn't true."

"I can't. Molly, there are things you don't know . . ."

Wendy, a short, stocky lab technician from upstairs bustled into the lab then. Sherlock clamped his mouth shut and turned away.

"Hey, Dr. Hooper, I have those results you wanted rushed . . . oh!" Wendy stopped when she saw Sherlock. "Oh, hi there. Sorry, 'm I interrupting something?"

Molly took the paperwork from Wendy's hand. "It's fine. Thank-you for these. Do you have enough blood sample left to run one more test for me?"

Wendy nodded. Molly scribbled a new requisition and handed it to her.

"Tranexamic acid? Oh, um, that might take me a bit. I'm not certain how to test for it. Don't worry though, I'll sort it out."

"Thanks, Wendy. Let me know as soon as possible."

After the lab technician left again. Sherlock stalked up to Molly. His hands gripped her shoulders.

"Molly . . . I cannot dispute John's account. I'm sorry. I have no other explanation for you."

Her eyes searched his. He was still hiding something. The film of it made the truth hard to discern but Molly could see enough.

"So, you are not going to dispute being called a cold-blooded murderer?"

He flinched. "Are those John's words?"

"Yes."

"Then it's true."

She could tell he was devastated by her revelation. She could almost hear his heart fracture like a glacier coming apart.

"Liar," she whispered.

His chin started wagging in disagreement. "Molly!"

"Liar," she said louder. "I don't believe it. Whatever you are, Sherlock Holmes, I will never believe you to be inhuman, no matter how hard you try to sell it to me."

His fingers bit into her shoulders. "You should, Molly. You will never be safe as long as you believe that."

"Safety is overrated."

His eyes flashed at her and next thing she knew, he'd scooped her up over his shoulder. He marched them through the lab to the back office where he kicked the door closed behind them and flipped the lock. He put her down briefly to drop the shades on both the office door and the outside window. Then he swooped down on her with a searing kiss.

The laws of physics broke down then. She felt weightless, like she was soaring as his lips moved desperately over hers. He shoved her lab coat off her shoulders and loosened the ties of her scrub bottoms. Then he pushed her knickers part way down with his hand and the rest of the way with his foot before gripping her naked bum, hiking her up and pinning her against the wall. They were shrouded in his jacket. Molly was lost in the franticness of it all. She dropped her head to the side as his lips travelled along her neck.

"You undo me, Molly. I-I am undone," he whispered brokenly against her flesh.

He reached between them and unfastened his trousers. With a quick shuffle, they dropped to his ankles. His thumb massaged her clit and dipped down to check her dampness. She gasped and gripped his shirt as the rough penetration of his digit caused electric ripples to pulse out from her center. His mouth claimed hers again, hot and needy. Then, he guided his blunt head into her with his hand. He let go of himself once he was part way in, clasped her bare arse and drove himself deep into her body. She was jerked hard against the wall as he impaled her with a grunt.

His hips bucked against hers again and he made another guttural sound like a beast enjoying a meal. Then, he started rocking against her, pounding her into the wall. The friction was unbearable, delicious - addictive. She spread her legs wide allowing him to penetrate her even deeper. Over and over, he thrust into her almost punishingly but she lapped it up. Soon, she felt a familiar tightening of her loins. Her legs stiffened.

"Oh, Christ, Sherlock, I'm going to come."

"Yes." He thrust.

"Yes." He thrust again.

Sherlock's hand covered her mouth just as she screamed her release. He plunged into her one last time and shuddered. His body twitched against hers as he came. Spent, he removed his hand and his hold relaxed. He let her touch her feet back down to the floor. She bit her lip as his ejaculate ran down her leg.

She'd run out of excuses. She was downright reckless. She'd had sex with him three times without properly considering the consequences and good Lord, she really didn't care. She'd do it a thousand more times if given the opportunity. That's why she needed to get the hell away from him for both their sakes.


	19. Chapter 19

_A car, should be a large government-ish looking sedan, will be waiting for you near the intersection of Glencross and Smyth at 5 pm. My associate Paul will be looking for you. –A_

 _Got it. Thanks again. –M_

 _You're welcome. Send me confirmation once you're on board. –A_

 _Will do. –M_

Molly stuffed her phone back in her bag and hurried down the street. She had about ten minutes before she was to meet at the rendezvous point but it was just one street away. She spied a coffee shop and ducked in to buy a bottle of water so that she could take her emergency contraception pills. She didn't know why she kept putting it off.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. There was some biological crazy sauce marinating her brain. A rather instinctual but illogical part of her actually wanted to stake a claim to Sherlock like a lioness in heat. It was bat-shit crazy but she got all hot and bothered imagining being knocked up by him.

Molly rounded the corner onto Glencross Street and immediately saw a dark grey BMW idling at the curb. Well, that was quick, she thought. She glanced down at her bag. She would have to take the pills on the way to wherever it was she was going. She slowed her approach to the sedan with its almost blacked out windows. She chewed her lip. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. She came to a stop and stared at the vehicle for several moments. Just as she turned to go, the passenger's window slid down.

"Molly Hooper?" A male called from inside.

She stretched her neck but could not see the man's face from her perspective. She took a hesitant step towards the car. There was something familiar about the driver's voice but she couldn't put her finger on it.

"It's alright, Ms. Hooper, my name is Paul. Anthea sent me. We have lots of fun things planned for you. The back door's unlocked. Hop on in."

Molly sighed. She felt bad for having put Anthea through all this trouble. Perhaps she should just stick with her plan and get out of town for a few days. Before she could change her mind, she climbed into the back seat of the waiting car and buckled herself in.

"All set?" The driver asked without turning around.

"Um, yes, just give me a second. I just need to get something from my purse . . ."

Molly frowned down at her bag. She pushed her wallet aside and dug around but the little white bag holding her prescription was . . . missing! She let out a heavy gasp. He didn't!

As her thoughts spun, Molly was jerked back in her seat. The car's tires chirped as it sped from the curb. She looked up wildly and found herself riveted by the chilling blue-eyed gaze of Sherrinford Holmes in the rear view mirror.

"Oh, what's the matter, Miss Molly? Did you forget something?" He grinned. "Don't worry, I'll take care of everything."

* * *

"What do you mean she never showed up?" Anthea shouted into her phone.

"Sorry, Ma'am, I waited a half hour. I didn't see her."

"Crap . . . crap!"

Anthea pressed end on her phone and tried dialing Molly Hooper but it went immediately to voicemail. She fired off a text.

 _My driver said you were a no show. Is something wrong? –A_

Anthea paced her office for several minutes awaiting a response. With each passing second, she felt more ill at ease. Finally, after what felt like the longest three minutes of her life. Her phone vibrated with a message.

 _Everything's grand! I caught a different ride. See you in the next life. –M_

"Oh, God! Oh, God. Sherlock's going to kill me!" She whispered.

Sherlock's eyes were drawn to the door of Mycroft's office. Anthea was not known for such a weak knock, if she knocked at all. She normally breezed in and out of his office like the swell and recession of a tide.

Mycroft raised his brows and swivelled his head. "Come in!"

Anthea stepped into the room and closed the door. Her eyes grazed Sherlock with trepidation. Mycroft stood up and rounded his desk.

"What is it? What's happened?"

Anthea's eyes lifted and met Sherlock's again. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I w-was trying to help . . ."

The hairs on his neck prickled. He pushed himself up from his seat as Anthea first showed Mycroft her phone then extended it his way. Mycroft's lips parted in surprise and with a quick swing of his arm, he ushered her behind him.

Sherlock scanned the messages Anthea had exchanged with Molly. He almost couldn't comprehend what he read. The final cryptic reply could only mean one thing- Sherrinford had his pathologist. With a roar he threw Anthea's phone across the office. It smashed into several pieces and fell to the floor.

Mycroft swallowed. "Now, there is no use getting emotional . . ."

Sherlock breathed heavily out his nose and mouth, trying not to explode. He stepped towards the pair of them angrily. Mycroft backed away with Anthea tucked safely in his shadow.

"Sherlock, we will find her, I will throw everything at my disposal into it . . ."

He kicked a chair over. "Shut up! Shut up! You are useless, useless! Huu-uhh . . ."

His knees buckled and he went down. He clutched the sides of his head.

"Y-you have failed me," his voice was almost a wail. "I did everything you asked. I gave you e-everything. You have failed me at every turn."

Mycroft's voice shook. "I am not invincible. I did my best but there's only so much I can do. You know what you need to do, brother. You can get her back. You need to solve this thing . . . Mary . . . Sherrinford. Solve it."

* * *

"I-I don't want to play."

"You do not have a choice. Make a move!"

Molly repositioned herself but she could not get comfortable. Her left arm ached from being stretched behind her with her wrist zip-tied to the chair back. With a shaky breath, she picked up a pawn off the chessboard and moved it just a single space forward.

"T-there."

Sherrinford frowned. "Pathetic!"

He picked up his knight and slammed it down on the board. Molly felt her eyes sting. She glanced around the room through a watery curtain. No matter how many times she surveyed the space, she could not determine much about it. She could be in an apartment, a seedy hotel room, or someone's basement. There was a narrow window that had been painted black on the wall opposite, a bare bulb as the only light source on the ceiling and minimal furniture that consisted of a small card table and two chairs they occupied.

She was exhausted. They had been playing games for hours. First poker, then Monopoly and now chess. The only way she had found to cope with the bizarre contests Sherrinford forced her to engage in was to be as frustrating as possible.

"Your turn again. God, what does he see in you? You're not bright at all."

She scooted her queen across the board. She would sacrifice it early. It was a move she'd successfully pulled on her father once while she sat with him during one of his dialysis sessions. Why? Because it was nuts, almost certain to lose you the game, but effective if a person thought you weren't smart enough to pull it off.

Molly watched Sherrinford closely. He suffered from a supreme over-abundance of arrogance. He gave no weight to the fact that she'd been dealing with a Holmes for years.

"I-I have to go the bathroom," she complained.

"Be quiet."

He made another move. She countered with an illegal repositioning of her bishop.

He pounded his fist on the table. "You skipped to the black! You cannot move that piece that way."

She frowned. "Erm, whoops, I mixed it up with the knight. My bad."

She pretended to be flustered and threw her queen into the line of fire. With a self-satisfied grin, he knocked her queen out with his king.

"Pfft, not even a challenge."

Molly feigned vexation. She furrowed her brow then made several false starts as if she couldn't decide which piece to move next.

Sherrinford eyes rolled away until he wasn't even watching the board anymore.

"This is complete waste. You were right. I overlooked you because you have all the processing power of a Hello Kitty calculator."

Molly narrowed her eyes then. She ran her tongue over her teeth and reached for her bishop. She snatched it up then plopped it down unceremoniously.

"Check mate."

His head rotated back with his mouth slightly aghast. His eyes darted from the board to her face and back again several times.

"It's not possible," he snarled.

Molly raised her brows. "Yeah it is, you dumb prick. Get over yourself."

Sherrinford shoved back from the table. He stood and clutched a hand over his eyes. She could tell by his sharp intake of breath he was in pain.

"Do you usually suffer from headaches?" She asked.

Sherrinford sniffed and then hacked a few times. Molly watched as a trickle of blood escaped his nose. He sniffed again and threw his head back before spinning on his heel and storming from the room. The door slammed shut and the lock slid in place.

Molly wasted no time. She shot up, swung the chair up in her grasp and dashed to the window. She couldn't budge it from the sill. She wasn't even certain she could with both hands free. She threw a glance back to door. There was no time. She smashed the legs of the chair through the glass. A dark city avenue illuminated dimly by street lamps awaited on the other side. Her stomach leaped into her throat as she looked out the window to the sidewalk a whole story below.

Behind her she heard the door rattle. What was on the other side scared her more than a fall from this height. Her heart hammered in her chest and she panted frantically. She stuck one leg, then the other out the window. Broken glass clawed at her clothes and pain sliced through her leg. Just as the door to the room burst open, she leapt.

Her plummet was brief. The chair attached to her arm didn't come out the window, instead it crashed against the frame and jarringly interrupted her fall. A knife of pain radiated down Molly's arm as her body jerked violently from where she was still connected via a tie strap.

"Gaaa!" She cried.

She scrambled against the brick wall with her feet but there was nothing to gain traction on. She heard shouts from several different directions. Then the tie-strap snapped. The shift in inertia caused her stomach to heave. She fell, scraping against the bricks on the way down and slammed into the sidewalk with her hip and her shoulder taking the brunt of the impact.

"Miss! Miss! Are you alright?" A voice shouted.

Molly rolled sideways. Her whole body was numb except for her wrist which felt as if a miniature bomb had gone off in the joint. She opened her eyes and looked back up towards the window where a shadowed head receded into the building.

"Miss!" A young, blonde man loomed overhead.

She grabbed his jacket and wheezed. "Please, get me out of here!"


	20. Chapter 20

Sherlock wasn't sure if there existed a more frustrating adversary than an apathetic teenaged boy with an IQ of 165. Sebastian Moran was intelligent enough to wreak havoc on a massive scale but not mature enough appreciate his own perilous mortality. Sherlock walked a fine line on the edge of control at that moment. His fingers itched to throttle the teen within an inch of his life for making him play this game. Molly was in grave danger, if not already . . . he shook his head. He couldn't even entertain the thought or he would lose his already tenuous grip.

"I don't care if you're barely post-pubescent, Sebastian. I will have my answers, one way or the other."

"Ooh, scary, Mr. Holmes! What're you going to do? Slap a second ankle monitor on my other leg?"

Sherlock smiled and clicked his teeth together. He moved around Sebastian's room, inspecting various items before turning his gaze back to the slight, dark-haired boy with sallow skin. Sebastian could be his younger twin which was unsettling. It made him think of Molly and possibilities and how he might guide a young man with such misunderstood talents. The direction of his musings unnerved him. He folded his fingers into his palm and glared at Sebastian.

"I know you've been online. In fact, I know about the tablet you are hiding from your mother in your underwear drawer. That's a terrible place to conceal it, by the way. It's the first spot she'll look if she suspects anything."

Sebastian crossed his arms and slouched back into his chair. "What does it matter if I have a tablet? It's not like we're allowed to have internet anymore. Maybe I just play games and listen to music on it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "As if you haven't hacked all your neighbor's Wi-Fi passwords! In fact, there has been some suspicious activity attributed to the IP address located two houses over. A lot of medical database searches have been conducted. Most of which are behind secure firewalls and the like. Somehow I don't think the octogenarian Mrs. Wentworth, despite her assertions that she's 'with-it' technologically, has those kind of hacking capabilities."

Sebastian cast his eyes away. "So prove it already. What they going to do?"

Sherlock straightened his collar and stared down at the young lad. "It's not 'they' you have to worry about. Do you know who you're dealing with, Sebastian? My older brother is a viper, he will not hesitate to lash out at you, your mother . . . your little sister."

Sebastian sat up. "Josie? What issue would he have with Josie?"

Sherlock raised a brow. "What indeed?"

"Would he hurt her?"

"What do you think?"

Sebastian sat forward with his head in his hands. He looked up after a spell.

"What do I do?"

"You give me information so I can stop him. What is he after?"

The troubled teenager shook his hands at Sherlock. "I dunno! Course I don't know. I deal in data, not answers. He seemed especially interested in records like birth logs, organ donor registries, and blood bank archives for some reason but I couldn't tell you why, dude."

"Anything else?"

An almost imperceptible tremor of Sebastian's eyelid gave him away. "This is going to get me into a lot more trouble, isn't it?"

"Tell me what else you have done or I'll have my brother Mycroft relocate you to his favorite sheep farm in the Shetlands."

The kid shrugged. "That's your threat? Doesn't sound so bad . . ."

"They only have dial-up."

Sebastian's face twisted in horror. "You really are a sicko, you know that?"

Sherlock slammed his hand down on his desk. "Out with it!"

"Alright! Alright! He had me make some trojans, you know, malware. He wanted backdoor access to the computers at labs providing haematology services for the NHS."

"What do you mean, backdoor access? What can he do?"

Sebastian chewed his fingernails. "Um, I dunno, whatever a lab tech with access would need to do. File management, requisitions, etc. Nothing global or anything, mind ya. He can only look at individual records, alter them if he likes, order tests and so on."

Sherlock shook his head. "And you had no moral compunction with giving him the ability to potentially kill someone? What if your little sister had a severe infection and he changed the results to hide the cause? What if your mother had a screen that falsely showed she had some fatal disease and the improper treatment led to her death?"

Sebastian didn't answer. He fidgeted in his chair. "I can shut him out anytime I want."

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose. "Perhaps you should think about doing that sooner than later."

Sebastian nodded. "Sure, I guess."

Sherlock made to leave the room but turned and looked back over his shoulder at the young man staring out the window of his bedroom. His brow was furrowed and his hands quivered on the armrests of his chair.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "You are gifted with extraordinary abilities and can leave a lasting impact on the world, Sebastian Moran, but you have a choice to make. You can continue down this dark path and keep accumulating dark companions until all you do is live in the shadows. That's the easy road. Villainy is easy. That's why there is so much of it in the world. You want a real challenge? Try to make this cesspool better."

* * *

"I've found her!"

Anthea nearly tripped on the ornate Kyrgyzstan rug as she rushed across the expanse of Mycroft's office. He pushed his laptop to one side on his heavy oak desk.

"Where?" He asked.

"Brixton. She's at King's College receiving treatment for some injuries."

Mycroft winced and leaned back in his leather desk chair. "Elaborate, please."

Anthea peeked down at her new phone sheathed in its bulky protective case. She swiped up to check the email she'd received minutes before.

"Not too bad, considering the alternative. A cut to her leg requiring stitches, several large contusions and a broken wrist. That's the worst of it."

"So, she's able to be discharged then?" Mycroft stood and straightened his vest. "We must act quickly before Sherlock finds out."

Anthea frowned. "What?"

"She's a distraction. One that needs to be removed in order for my brother to do his job. Take her wherever it was that you had planned to take her before and do it quickly."

"Isn't that . . ." Anthea's voice faltered.

"Isn't that what?"

"C-cruel? To hide that from him? How would you feel if the shoe were on the other foot? What if it were m-me?"

Mycroft rounded the desk and grabbed her by the elbows. When he had drawn her closer, his hands travelled upwards and he cupped her face. He stared down at her quivering lips.

"All I can think about is – 'what if it were you'," he murmured. "What if it were my Anthea?"

She ran her tongue over her lips. "M-my Anthea?"

He nodded. "I appreciate that this is a highly unprofessional thing to admit while one's at work. However, it's hardly the least unprofessional thing I've done on the job lately so you'll have to forgive me, but well . . . "

His eyes cast about nervously. He swallowed and then rubbed her jaw with his thumbs.

"I think I am in love with you."

She steadied her hands on his sides. Her eyes felt raw and tingly. She hadn't blinked for several moments.

"What?

He kissed her briefly. His next words resounded against her lips. "I love you. I want to stow you away on your own deserted island to keep you safe but more than that, I want you here beside me and that puts you in harm's way. Sherrinford needs to be stopped if I am ever to sleep properly again. Sherlock is the only man who's ever outwit him and he needs to be 100% focussed on that task."

Anthea was speechless. "Wait . . . y-you love me?"

He scoffed. "As if you didn't know."

Her eyes widened. "I didn't."

Mycroft's pale blue eyes searched hers. "How could you not? I've been smitten from the moment we met. In fact, I almost fell over the first time I saw you."

Her eyes darted to and fro. "I-I remember. Your umbrella slipped."

He smirked. "I leaned too heavily on it."

Her mind was a spin cycle. "You've known you loved me all this time? Truly?"

"Being struck by lightning is quite hard to overlook, my dear."

She squeezed him tightly. "Did you know how I felt?"

He looked askance. "I had my suspicions but I would never presume to say I ever really knew for certain . . . or know now for that matter."

She clutched his shirt at his waist. "You daft man. You bloody fool. What did I do that very same moment I first laid eyes on you?"

His eyes narrowed as he reminisced then he looked at her as if a bulb flashed behind his eyes. "You dropped your phone."

"Guess the lightning caught both of us then," She mumbled. "Because I love you, Mycroft Holmes. I always have."

They held each other fiercely then. His hand caressed her hair for a time before he started laughing softly against her temple.

"What is it?" Her head laid against his chest.

"I was thinking," he said softly, "this rather un-complicates things."

"I know! What are we going to do with each other now?"

His hand slid down her back. "Oh, I can think of a few things."

"Simple things?"

"The most basic."

* * *

"Ugh," Sherlock muttered under his breath as he pulled the door to Mycroft's office, which had been cracked, closed. "Such dribble."

He wished he could be angry with Mycroft for plotting to keep him from Molly but it was a relief to know his pathologist was alive, albeit not completely unharmed. He relaxed his balled up fists and stretched his fingers. His chest constricted. He wanted to rush to her and promise once more that he'd protect her, but he knew as long as his brother remained at large he would fail again. Mycroft was right, teeth grindingly and one hundred percent, irritatingly right. Sherrinford needed to be stopped because it wasn't just those who they cared about in danger, it was anyone who had ever been in contact with the National Health Service. Which meant pretty much everyone in the UK.

Mary had been a demonstration of sorts, he was almost certain of it. The ghost-like wisps of Sherrinford's plan were frustratingly hard to pull together but the answers were out there. Mycroft was correct to hide Molly away because he needed to focus and she needed time to come to grip with things.

He felt a grimace set into his face as he made his way down the hall from his brother's office. Hopefully, she didn't hate him for staying away, or his lack of impulse control regarding her prescription the day before, or being related to a psychopath who took every opportunity to harm her, or . . . well the list was unfathomably long. He needed to believe she could forgive him because he was finally convinced.

Molly was the key to everything.


	21. Chapter 21

Molly closed her eyes with a sharp intake of breath as the plane jolted around them. She felt worse this day than she had the day before when he had flung herself from a second story flat. Every muscle and joint in her body ached. She hurt in places she didn't know existed. It was odd to be flying off to some tropical destination in a private jet as if she were going on vacation. She opened her eyes when she thought she heard Mycroft make a sound. He stared back with a slight squint.

"You say you . . . played games?"

Molly nodded.

Mycroft tugged at his light grey blazer and regarded her pensively. "What kind of games?"

She moved in her seat trying to make herself comfortable. "Monopoly. A few hands of poker. Chess."

Mycroft pursed his lips. "Hmm . . ."

He glanced sideways at Anthea. As ever, she was deeply engrossed by something on her phone.

Molly drew her brows together. "Is that a new mobile?"

Anthea gazed up and smiled tightly. She dipped her head once and then returned to her phone.

"I believe I know why he made you play those games," Mycroft muttered. "He was trying to analyse your decisions. It's a process he uses to sort things out."

Molly snorted. "Pfft, yeah, I gathered as much. I don't know what he expected but it's not like I played straight. That's why he got so angry, I think."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I acted dumb most of the time but every now and then I'd make a move that appeared brilliant. Then I'd cheat or throw the game. I didn't play at all the way I'd normally do so until we got to Chess."

"And what happened then?"

A smile tugged at her lips. "I beat him."

Anthea laughed across the aisle of the small jet. "Did you really?"

Molly shrugged. "He was just so full of himself . . ."

Mycroft uncrossed his legs and sat forward. "You mean to tell me that my brother Sherrinford, a man with an IQ over 200, was defeated at Chess . . . by you?"

She bristled. "Yes. Oh, that's the problem with all you Holmes! You think somehow being ridiculously shrewd means you're infallible or makes up for your complete lack of emotional intelligence. Well, you're clueless, all of you. If there were an IQ for feelings, you'd all three be below 70."

"Mmf, ha!" Anthea burst out before covering her mouth with her hand.

Mycroft raised his brows. "My, my. Sherlock is making a hash of things, isn't he?"

Molly looked away out the small window next to her and clumsily tried to cross her arms. Her cast, as small as they had tried to make it, did not enable her to be gracefully indignant. She unfolded her arms again and clunked it back down on her armrest with a wince.

"You're not wrong, Dr. Hooper." Mycroft murmured. "Sherlock and myself, we do not deal well with emotions . . . but we do have them. However, Sherrinford is different. While we younger siblings suppress our sentimental side, he almost completely lacks one. So, despite my initial skepticism, I do believe you when you say you beat him. It's interesting, though, that you were able to gauge him so successfully. Very interesting."

Molly wiggled uncomfortably in her seat. "It was nothing really, I'm boasting and I shouldn't. If I were all that clever, I'd never have gotten into the car with him. How d-did he manage that?"

"He had a young associate of his hack your mobile carrier to intercept your messages as well as track you using GPS. The new phone and number we provided should avoid that in future."

She scanned the inside of the 6-seat jet. She knew she was safe, at least for the time being, but could not get rid of her anxiousness. It was as if she expected Sherrinford to pop out of one of the stow-away compartments at any second.

"Why does he bother with me?" Her voice was small. " I still don't understand."

Mycroft leaned back against the supple leather of his backrest. "Hmm, funny, I'm beginning to think I do."

* * *

"Lestrade, I'm sorry, I do not have time for your petty concerns."

Greg glared at Sherlock. "Petty concerns? They're trying to pin a murder on an innocent woman!"

Sherlock pushed himself up from his chair and began pacing the same well-worn path over his living room rug. "Well, they're idiots then. I told you before that Dr. Leeds died during a sexual misadventure by huffing too much laughing gas . . . really, this is wasting my time. Mrs. Leeds is the author of her own misfortune and I hardly feel sorry for her. She should never have moved his body . . ."

Greg drew in a steadying breath. "Ack, you're not listening, you prat! His autopsy showed he died from acute kidney failure. They think she poisoned him somehow."

Sherlock furrowed his brows. "Kidney failure? Odd, but then, how do you know she didn't poison the duplicitous dentist? She was rather incensed."

"I know because his twin brother died a week later from the same problem and he lives on the other side of the country. Mrs. Leeds hasn't been anywhere near him in over a year so she couldn't have poisoned him too."

Sherlock stopped in his tracks. The mystery pulled at him irresistibly. He couldn't recall anything he'd solved that was even remotely compelling recently. He'd been chasing his brother for months and gotten nowhere. He itched to reactivate his mind. He'd thought that putting some distance between himself and Molly would be a good thing but his brain had turned to mush in the week since Mycroft had taken her off. When she was around, his senses were heightened and he felt on high alert. Without her, he spent far too much time wallowing and when he wasn't doing that, fondling himself. He may as well start wearing sweat pants and eating processed cheese puffs like some secondary school drop-out on social assistance. He looked down at his robe and pajamas. There were crumbs from his breakfast still clinging to his lapels.

He gave his head a shake and straightened his neck. "Right then, give me a moment to get dressed and I'll see how I can assist you."

* * *

"Paromomycin."

"Oy? What's that?"

Sherlock let out a noisy breath. As much as he appreciated Lestrade as a person, he was a useless assistant. He stretched his neck side to side and looked around. He glanced up. Bart's lab seemed dark even with all the lights returned to their working state. It was lacking brightness, lacking - Molly. He sorely missed her . . . erm, medical expertise, he told himself.

"It's an antibiotic. Apparently Mr. Leeds had been recently diagnosed with Cryptosporidiosis, a parasitic infection of the intestinal track. He was prescribed paromomycin to treat it."

Greg Lestrade had a completely blank look on his face. "And . . .?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That's probably what caused his renal failure. Many antibiotics can be toxic to the kidneys. Of course, this is a very rare occurrence . . ."

Sherlock jumped from his chair and started speaking rapidly. "Very rare. Both brothers were afflicted with the same parasite and thus given the same medication, a standard treatment for this thing. Both brothers died. What is this? What am I missing?"

He balled up a fist and tapped his forehead a couple of times. "What is this? It's a needle in a haystack . . ."

Like Mary.

Those two words inexplicably popped into his head but once in, they refused to leave. Sherlock felt his blood run cold. Each twin would have sought council and treatment for a malady. Each would have had tests done through the NHS. Sherrinford had access to the results of those tests but why these two? Why would he bother killing an inept dentist and a humble sheep farmer?

"Well, what's the verdict?"

"I need more information. I need help with this, real help."

Greg coughed. "What was that now?"

Sherlock turned back to him with his chin in the air. "Get the other brother. I don't care if you have to steal him away from their morgue in the middle of the night and pack him down here."

"He's already buried, Holmes!"

Sherlock grabbed his jacket from a hook on the wall and donned it with a flourish. He wrapped his scarf around his neck.

"Then exhume him," He bit out. "There is much more to this. The fate of the nation is at hand."

Greg's eyes were wide as saucers. "But . . .don't you need to . . . I mean, where are you off to, then?"

He snorted. "Well, I'm hardly in the hearse driving business. Like I said, I need help . . . I need Molly."


	22. Chapter 22

Molly struggled to rise from her dream like a child caught in the deep end of the pool. Her limbs felt weighted, her chest compressed. She opened her mouth to scream but she didn't have a voice. For several moments she struggled until mercifully, she was disentangled and shaken out of her nightmare.

"Molly, wake up before you hurt yourself!" A familiar voice commanded.

Her eyes fluttered open to see the outline of her savoir.

"Sherlock?" She whispered groggily.

She had dreamed of him every night that week. She reached out to touch him and braced herself for the inevitable disappointment of realizing he was not actually there. When her hand contacted an intensely hot, solid muscular mass, she almost stopped breathing.

"Oh! My God, Sherlock, you're here. How did you find me?"

Sherlock reached over to the lamp on her bedside table and flicked it on. The Balinese style cottage lit with a warm glow. Molly chewed her lip as their eyes met. Her heartbeat drummed in her ears insistently as her nerves started to do a happy dance. She could never tire of his masculine beauty. She scanned every millimeter of his perfectly formed face from his lofty cheekbones to his determined jaw just to try to process how gorgeous he was. And, God, how much she loved him! So much so that looking at him was difficult because she felt as if her chest cavity was open and exposed to him.

"I never lost you," he replied. "I am sorry I didn't come sooner but I have been trying to shut Sherrinford down."

She pressed her lips together and nodded. She watched as his eyes quickly surveyed her injuries. With each resting place from her cast wrist to the deep yellow and purple bruise that extended from the tip of her shoulder to mid-way on her bicep, his eyes constricted further. Then he looked away guiltily.

"It's not your fault, Sherlock," she said as she touched his face.

He laid his hand over top hers and then shifted closer on the bed. "It is, Molly . . . it is and I don't deserve your absolution."

She smiled. "Maybe not, but you have it anyways."

With a groan, Sherlock slipped his hand behind her head and pulled her towards him. She felt the rasp of his breath against her lips before his mouth crushed down on hers. His arms went around her and he dragged her from the bed until she was pinned against his chest. He stood up with her held tightly against his body by her back. She felt the press of his large hand and long fingers against the smooth satin of her short night dress, an impulse buy from the hotel boutique after she'd had a randy dream about him. Her toes just barely touched the floor. She felt the warm breeze of the tropics tickle her bottom as the nightdress rode up.

His lips left hers briefly. "What are you wearing?"

His voice was heavy, husky. She felt a million flutters in her tummy.

"Just a bit of silk. It was too hot to sleep in flannel."

He nodded and looked down. His hand ran up her thigh and cupped her cheek. His other hand traced a similar path until he encountered her stiches and flinched.

"I'm sorry, does it still hurt?"

"No," She breathed, "well, not really much anymore."

His fingers danced over the threads and then caressed her buttock. He growled low in his throat as his eyes bored into hers.

"I want you," he muttered. "But I don't want to hurt you."

Her body didn't care that she was still on the mend. It begged like a dog for table scraps. She felt a pulsing begin between her thighs. She clenched down there to try to quell the throb but it only served to spread the heat outwards. She closed her eyes and tried to steady her breaths but they poured from her lips, scorching and uneven.

"Jesus Christ, I want you too, Sherlock. Please, make me feel something, anything but this fucking anxious vacuum it's been without you."

His lips claimed hers once again and he pulled at her knickers. She shook her head.

"Mm, mm, I am pretty much undressed. You need to lose your clothes."

He lifted his chin a moment and stared down at her with a smirk. She suppressed a grin and lifted a brow.

"Naked, now!" She commanded.

"Fine."

She helped him peel off his clothing, layer by layer until they stood toe to toe, him totally bare and her still in her nightdress but sans panties. He was a bit of a whiz at that. She didn't even feel them come off but they laid in two pieces at her feet anyways.

"What now?" She whispered.

Sherlock's face was cast in stone. He stared down at her for several seconds in contemplation. She chewed her lip again, nervous about his shadowed expression. She was about to reach for him when his hands gripped her hips and turned her around. They glided up the sides of her body, pushing her nightdress up to her waist before his fingers gripped her hips and pulled her back against his erection.

Her whole body burned as his stiff member imprinted itself against her backside between her cheeks. The digits of one hand dug into her hip as his other hand slid up over her mound and his fingers splayed out over her belly. His hips ground against hers, rubbing his cock up her buttocks. She panted heavily and felt a fission of fear. He was so large. How had he ever fit inside her body?

He leaned forward then, his voice was ragged in her ear. "Can I have you like this?"

"Uh . . ." A sigh escaped her lips.

Blood pounded through her pussy. She did want him to take her like that, spread her from behind and rut her senseless. She arched her back which caused her bum to perk up against him. She heard him suck in a breath.

"Is that a yes?"

She nodded. "That's a God yes."

She made an attempt to remove her nightdress but he jerked her against him.

"No, leave it. I like it," he murmured.

Then, he bent her forward a little and she felt his tip push between her cheeks. She reached down guided him into her until his head just breached her entryway. She clenched around him. It was so tight and he felt incredibly huge entering her this way. She heard him swear under his breath.

"Molly, you have no idea how good this feels," he said with a moan. "Like I am going to detonate."

She lurched back into him, causing his shaft to impale her further. "Yes, y-yes, please do."

With a grunt, he rammed into her until he was completely buried in her tight wetness. Then he withdrew quickly and rammed again. Molly cried out. It was a good sort of pain as he stretched her to fit him. Soon, his entire length was slick with her juices and he slid easily between her cheeks and deep into her body. His hips slapped against her furiously with each stroke. The silky nightdress fluttered over her waist as he thrust repeatedly. There was something wickedly sensuous about the way the slippery fabric slinked over her heated skin. Everything was hot, so deliciously hot.

It didn't take her long to start to feel the fuses of the fireworks he created light. Then his hand slid down her belly and worked its magic as he continued to thrust. She was so wet now, she could hear the sound of her sucking at him as he withdrew and entered her again. Then, it snuck up on her so fast she wasn't prepared. A burst of electricity at her nerve center cascaded into a body-rocking orgasm. She threw her head back and cried out. Her insides convulsed and gripped him in waves.

Sherlock clamped down on either hips with his hands and let loose then. His thrusts were rapid fire, his testicles slapped against her body and then with one last pierce, he came. Molly felt his member pulsate inside her. His hips jerked a couple of times, then he softened and withdrew.

He pulled her back up against him and wrapped his arms around her. He kissed her bare shoulder.

"I swear, this is not why I came here," he said between heavy breaths.

Molly gulped in some air. "No? It seems worth it to me."

He laughed softly in her ear.

"Oh, that was definitely worth the trip but like I said, that's not why I'm here." He squeezed her tighter. "I've come to take you home."


	23. Chapter 23

The more Sherlock explained, the more Molly's heart fell. Just once she wanted his motivation to come for her to actually be about her, not about what she could do for him. The night previous she had let herself believe, however briefly, that maybe he couldn't stand to be parted but during this flight back to England, he informed he needed her to examine a pair of bodies.

Of course, as a pathologist and a researcher, his reasons piqued her curiosity. Not to mention, it was in her best interests to assist in capturing Sherrinford. Just the thought of encountering him made her break out in a sweat. She doubted she would be able to fool him long enough to get away again should he manage to abduct her once more.

Her mind wandered as Sherlock went silent in the seat opposite and the humming of the plane around her lulled her into a meditation of sorts. Anthea had praised her more than once for being fearless in jumping out the window to get away from Sherrinford. Molly had been brave in the face of death, Anthea had said.

Molly's escape from the second floor of that flat had been the moment she thought she actually faced life. Every second before that she had been preparing for the end. Sherrinford hadn't really physically harmed her in the time they'd spent together, besides a little manhandling when she resisted being strapped to the chair. However, his false reverence at some intervals made her feel like an old hen being cooed to by a farmer as he carried her to the chopping block. Molly believed she had no choice, that the second Sherrinford gleaned his answers and she was no longer a mystery, he would conclude the chapter of her meagre existence.

It was in those moments, despite her one-time bravado about being unafraid about death, she feared what she might leave behind. No, she did not have family, and friends numbered fewer every day, but the frustrating prat who shared the plane might mourn her passing. In addition, there was a very real possibility she might be pregnant. She was not sure when she came to the conclusion, but somewhere in the midst of all the chaos and delays and distractions, she decided to let the chips fall where they may. If she were pregnant, she would stay pregnant because she could not imagine giving up any part of this fantastically complicated and confounding man.

However, there was still the question as to what the hell he was up to regarding her contraception.

Molly stared at Sherlock until he met her gaze. It was now or never since the plane was already beginning its descent. Once they landed, she had no idea what would happen and when they'd get the opportunity to speak again.

"Something on your mind?" He asked.

She scratched at her cast nervously.

"Just ask!" Her inner voice prodded.

"Spit it out, Molly," he growled. "Your internal machinations are distracting me."

She crossed her arms defensively. "Sherlock, erm, before your b-brother took me, I had gone to the pharmacy to get emergency contraception pills but then when I looked in my bag later, they were missing."

His face was blank except for a flutter of his eyelids. "Hmm."

She scooted upright in her chair. "So?"

He sat forward with his chin resting on the tips of his fingers. "So what?"

She blinked at him and sighed noisily. "So, did you take them?"

His lips poked out and retracted swiftly. His eyes curved downwards and to one side before meeting hers once more. Then he sat back and crossed his legs. His foot jittered at the end of his leg.

"No."

Her mouth fell open. "No? No?! They just fell out, did they? From a zipped pocket?"

He squinted. "Yeees."

She could not believe with what she was confronted. "Sherlock Holmes, that was about as bald-faced lie as I have ever heard . . ."

His phone jangled in his pocket. His lips formed an 'o' then he retrieved it and gave her an exaggerated shrug.

"Ooh, look at that," he said with a grimace. "Mycroft! I bet this is very important. Excuse me!"

"Sherlock!"

He held up his finger and shook his head. "Fate of the nation and all that! Really, Molly, contain yourself!"

He proceeded to answer his cell and moved to the back of the plane. Molly slouched in her chair and tapped her foot on the floor while she tried to scratch an itch in her cast with a drink straw. She fumed as she sat there and the Holmes brothers' conversation dragged out. Then the captain's voice crackled over the speakers and informed them they needed to be buckled for landing. Molly leaned out of her seat to glower at Sherlock.

He shrugged again with a grin. Then held his phone to his ear with his chin as he latched himself in. He gave a little wave of his hands as if communicating, "oh darn, how unfortunate about our conversation!" She spun back in her seat in a huff. Git! Git, git, git! Well, he had another thing coming if he thought their discussion was over.

* * *

An hour later Sherlock stood impatiently in her flat checking the time on his cell. "Why is this taking so long?"

Molly sighed. "We've been here all of five minutes. I almost have everything I need. I just seemed to have misplaced my favorite necklace."

Sherlock had wanted to take her straight back to Baker street but she insisted on going home for a few minutes to get a few essentials, namely, some extra pairs of knickers. Then, she had thought about her mother's little gold cross necklace and knew she could not leave it behind. A search of her usual spots in her bedroom turned up nothing so she headed to the bathroom. She found it in a little pool at the bottom of her medicine cabinet next to her expired prescription of monthly contraception. She smirked as she picked up the package. She was about to throw it in the bin next to the toilet when she noticed the foil seemed to be separating from the edge of the plastic.

Molly turned the package over and inspected it with a frown. She picked at the corner of the foil and then peeled it away in one little yank. Then she turned the package over to catch the pills. There was something off about them. She fingered them. They looked exactly like her usual pills except . . . they were all the same colour, the wrong colour. There were supposed to be 3 sets of white pills and one set of light blue pills – the dummy pills at the end of the cycle that didn't do anything. Instead, they were all light blue. They were all the dummy pills. She shook her head. She could have taken these and never had noticed because she usually just popped them in without thinking.

She had had these for months. They were supposed to be her next course but since she'd broken up with Tom, she hadn't bothered taking them. She stared down at the separated packaging. Someone had deviously gone to great lengths to tamper with her contraception and only one other person that she knew of had been in her flat since then.

She trembled as she trudged out to the living room with the pills and package in her hand. She wanted to pass out. She felt as if the whole world spun around her drunkenly.

"Molly, we really must be going . . ." Sherlock's words died on his lips.

She chewed her lip a moment and then looked up at him with a furrowed brow. Her nose was scrunched up. She opened her mouth to speak but the words failed on her tongue. She shook her head not once but twice.

"Wh-what is this, Sherlock?"

His face had that slack look, the one she knew meant he was trying to control his expression. She held out her hand. Then she saw it, that little spasm of his left lid, and she knew. Everything she thought had been going on was not at all what it had seemed. She wanted to vomit.

"What is this?!" She screamed and threw the pills at him.

They bounced off him and scattered across the floor. His lips were slightly parted. "Molly . . ."

"Oh, God, don't you Molly me! What the hell are you playing at?"


	24. Chapter 24

"You had better start explaining, Sherlock Holmes, and don't lie to me. Don't you dare!"

Sherlock stood silent for several moments with a distant look in his eyes as if he were trying to spot a rabbit across an open field. Every now and again, he would give his head a little shake. She watched his fingers dance at his sides. After one minute stretched into the next, Molly stepped forward and snapped her fingers in his face. He flinched and glared at her fingers before looking her in the eyes with bewilderment.

"Hello, anyone home?" She asked with a huff.

His head jerked sideways. "Wasn't I speaking?"

"No, you most certainly were not."

He cricked his head from side to side and then adjusted his scarf. "I thought we had an entire conversation. Pity, I was quite eloquent and you agreed with everything I said."

She gritted her teeth. She tried to remain calm but found it difficult.

"Alright, I'll bite. What did you say?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I don't feel like repeating myself."

Molly grabbed his arm. She took a breath but tears stung her eyes anyways.

"You can't treat me this way," she whispered. "Not if you care for me at all. I don't deserve it."

His eyes, slightly larger than usual, ticked downwards and he looked back up. His face was soft and boyish. He seemed so lost. She felt that familiar tug at her heartstrings from the confused way he gazed at her.

"Tell me you have a good explanation for this or that I'm mistaken or anything else because I want to believe in you," she pleaded.

He stepped back with a curse before he squeezed his eyes shut and massaged his temples.

"It doesn't matter what I do. He's never wrong," he mumbled to himself. "I want him to be wrong."

She balled up her fists. "For Christ's sake, tell me what is going on!"

Sherlock opened his eyes. "I have an explanation for you, Molly. I do, but I need you to believe in me a little bit longer. Please, first examine the Leeds men for me and help me thwart Sherrinford. I cannot do this without you."

* * *

Molly felt numb as she examined the sheep farmer brought down from Scotland and then his brother, the dentist. She went about her post mortems by rote as she tried to contemplate what Sherlock had explained about Sherrinford's plot. Sherrinford had had access to all the requisition labs in the UK, he had probably tampered with blood tests performed on each of the men. She wasn't one to put simple labels on things but what Sherlock theorized was in a word – evil. The depth of Sherrinford's depravity gave her chills.

The examinations of the men were tricky with her wrist still hampered by her cast. Not to mention, Dr. Leeds was well past the point he should have been buried while Mr. Leeds the farmer, had been embalmed so any blood work she might otherwise order was pointless. While both men did, in fact, appear to die from renal failure, the mechanism of that death was far from conclusive. The damage to their kidneys appeared chronic as if they'd been suffering from some sort of affliction for quite some time. Also, try as she might, Molly found no trace of Cryptosporidiosis on any intestinal slides.

"Dr. Hooper?"

Molly glanced up to see Wendy, the technician who had performed the tests on Mary's blood work.

"I haven't seen you for a bit, oh! What happened?" She asked when she saw the cast.

Molly pressed her lips together nervously then smiled tightly. "Nothing. Bit of a tumble. I'll be all healed in a few more weeks."

Molly watched as Wendy's eyes scanned the lab. "Where's that yummy Mr. Holmes?"

"He's around somewhere causing trouble I'm sure," Molly mumbled feeling vexed with herself for being a bit jealous.

Wendy twitched her brows and leaned against the counter. "Well, tell him to feel free to disrupt the lab upstairs anytime. I could use a little excitement."

Molly frowned and cleared her throat. "May I help you, Wendy?"

She produced a report from behind her back. "I've got your results for that tranexamic acid requisition you ordered on . . . " she checked the papers, ". . . Ms. Mary Elizabeth Watson. Yeah, I tested that every which way from Sunday, Doctor. Nothing."

Molly took the report and scanned the numbers. "Are you sure?"

Wendy nodded. "I had two other girls I work alongside double check my results. There was no trace of that med in her system."

"Alright, yes, um, thank-you."

Wendy pushed back from the counter. "I'll head back upstairs then, unless you need anything?"

"I'm good, thanks again."

"No problem. Tell that gorgeous man candy of yours hello from Wendy next time you see him, hmm?" She winked.

"Uh, huh."

Molly turned and resumed her work on Dr. Leeds. She was in disbelief. If Mary hadn't been dosed with tranexamic acid that meant Molly's original conclusions were correct. Mary hadn't been murdered. She had died from something far more mundane and Sherrinford Holmes had nothing to do with her death.

Just as those thoughts were solidifying in Molly's head, she noticed something odd about Dr. Leeds' sternum she hadn't before. A growth.

"Oh, my, my. What is going on with you, Dr. Leeds?"

* * *

"What are you doing?"

Molly looked up to see Sherlock entering the lab. Her heart twisted painfully in her chest. She wanted to curl up in a ball somewhere and cry. For all the intimacies they'd shared, she was still just a means to an end to him. She wanted to be much more upset with him about his deception but thoughts of their recent activities competed for her attention. Could she really have misread him so badly?

"I'm finishing a cause of death report."

His brows raised. "On one of the Leeds?"

"No," she looked back down. "On Mary."

She listened as his steps halted. She braced for the inevitable argument. He would not agree with her findings.

"Mary? Have you received some new information then?"

"No, not really, except that she didn't have any tranexamic acid in her blood stream."

"So how can you determine her death . . . "

She looked up with incredulity. "Because I am a damn good pathologist, Sherlock, and I never should have doubted myself. Mary wasn't murdered. The answer was in front of me the whole time but I let myself get carried away by fantastical conspiracy theories."

He drew his brows together in a frown. "What!?"

"You heard me."

He clamped his mouth shut for just a moment before he replied. "So, what was her cause of death then if not something 'fantastical'?

"Her birth control."

He blinked a couple times. "That can't be it."

Molly sighed. "Mary had just started back on the pill prior to her death. It didn't help that she had a very minor a heart defect. That in and of itself isn't a problem but it meant she was at a higher risk for a life threatening clot. It's kind of a chicken or the egg thing, her leaky heart valve could have caused a small clot in conjunction with her birth control which then lodged in her leg or the clot could have started in her leg. Either way, her body was a ticking time bomb."

"It can't be . . .Sherrinford knew. He alluded to it . . . "

Molly narrowed her eyes. "But it is, and it's past time John and little Bethie had their answers so they can move on with their lives. You can pick this apart all you want, Sherlock, but you will come to the same conclusion eventually. You have let Sherrinford con you."

He slunk down to one of the metal lab stools thinking for several moments. She busied herself as he compiled her information. She knew by his silent contemplation he was in fact, starting to accept her findings.

"What of the Leeds?" He asked quietly.

She paused at the edge of the lab table at which he was seated. "Ah, yes, well, they are a different story."

He looked up with one brow raised. "Indeed?"

"They both died of kidney failure, to be sure, but neither of them were infected with Cryptosporidiosis. They should not have been on antibiotics. Their kidneys were in poor shape from fighting something much worse."

"What was it?"

"Multiple Myeloma. They both were in the advanced stages of this type of cancer. I found bone tumors in their spines, septum and even their ribs. When myeloma breaks down the bones in some patients, they become hypercalcaemic from too much calcium in the blood. That's why the kidneys can fail. Of course, it's rare for siblings to suffer from the same disease at the same time but they were identical twins. When I checked their medical records, they had been each of them tested for it at least once in the past year with negative results."

Sherlock's face paled. "Sherrinford tampered with their records. One of Mycroft's agents found his digital trail."

Molly frowned. "But why? Why would he do that?"

"I d-don't know. When we checked, we found that he'd been in and out of countless files with no apparent rhyme or reason. It was nearly impossible to discern whether he changed each record or not. Mycroft has people pouring over everything so we might prevent more of these incidents. I am hoping a pattern develops so we can determine his end game."

Molly scratched again at her damn itchy cast. "Can I look at the records?"

Sherlock's eyes widened. "You want to help?"

"I want to stop him as much as anyone."

He looked down. "I didn't think you would want to help me . . ."

She held her breath. "I wouldn't be doing it for you."

He looked away and swallowed. She wanted to hate him for that, for making her feel bad, but she couldn't.

She cleared her throat. "Which reminds me, you still owe me an explanation, Sherlock Holmes, and it better be good."

"Well, are you finished? We should probably not discuss such matters here."

"I am, are you really going to make me wait?"

Sherlock stood and straightened his jacket. He lifted his chin and assessed her with a nod.

"I am fearful for anything breakable in this lab, including myself. I said I had an explanation." He smiled grimly. "However, I did not say I had a good one."


	25. Chapter 25

Molly watched as Sherlock sat tapping his fingers on the edge of his chair at Baker Street while she sat opposite him like one of his clients. He cricked his head from side to side, rolled it forward and then lifted his chin. His eyes went round and blinked at her a couple times as if clearing his thoughts. Finally, he took a deep breath.

"Alright, I am ready."

Molly clasped her hands on her lap. All day she had waited for an answer to a question she never wanted to ask. Now that she was about to learn Sherlock's reasons for abusing her trust, she just wanted to plug her ears with her fingers and pretend she had never actually uncovered his scheme.

"Wh-why did you interfere with my birth control?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Which incident are we speaking about? The emergency contraception I stole or the monthly pills I sabotaged that you never actually took?"

She resisted throwing a cushion at him. "Oh, I don't know. How about you explain both of them?"

He breathed out through his nose. "I suppose they were driven by the same motivations. However, I will say that my theft of your morning after pills was unplanned . . . for whatever that's worth."

She wrinkled her nose and wiggled her head. "Um, yeah, not much."

He rolled his eyes. "I am not sure why you are so upset actually. You have given every indication that you would not be averse to becoming pregnant . . . by me that is . . ."

Molly's face flamed. "That's beside the point. S-stop deflecting!"

Sherlock pressed his fingers together. The way he looked at her with such intensity heated her blood. She wriggled in her seat and averted her eyes shyly. She heard him sigh.

"I have told you about my brother and his, um, ability to predict things," he said slowly. "Well, in fact, one of his favorite pastimes when we were children was to taunt me with revelations about my future. You see, he anticipated events before they happened. He told me the day my dog Redbeard was going to die a year before it came to pass. He knew I was going to suffer a drug addiction as an adult. He predicted I would be friends with a man named John and that we would solve crimes together. He mapped out my whole life and so far, everything he's told me has happened just as he said it would."

Sherlock looked down at his shirt and picked a phantom hair off. He flicked his fingers nonchalantly but his voice was tense all the same.

She gulped down a lump in her throat. "Yes, I understand that Sherrinford is quite the piece of work but what does this have to do with what you did to me?"

Sherlock pursed his lips briefly before he looked away. "He said I would . . . that I would never have children, or a family, or anything that normal people ever experience because . . . well, because I am not normal."

Molly could see and hear the little boy who had been told those awful musings in the way his eyes cast downwards and his voice quavered. Oh, if she had been there when Sherrinford had said those terrible things, she would have given him a cuff across the back of the head and then reassured Sherlock.

She blinked back tears. "And what w-were you trying to do then? Prove him wrong?"

He did not lift his eyes. His fingers curled into his palms. "Ahem, I suppose . . . in a way."

Molly inhaled a sharp breath. Every little bit he added to his confession made her heart feel as if it were shriveling up like a dried piece of fruit.

"Why did you choose me?"

He met her eyes then. "Erm, well, you seemed like the most suitable candidate. You were readily available and trustworthy. If I was able to sire a child, I wanted him or her to have an intelligent mother so you checked that box. What else? Oh, yes, you . . . like? . . . me and are attracted to me so that made things easier," He squinted his eyes as he thought and shook his head. "It is so tedious to develop new relationships, especially the sort that would enable procreation . . ."

Molly was almost hyperventilating as she sat and listened to Sherlock coolly recount his analysis in how he came to the conclusion she should be the mother of his potential offspring. Her face felt frozen. In fact, ice crept through her bloodstream and made her tremble with its chill. Her voice was oddly flat when she spoke.

"Why didn't you just ask me, Sherlock? Why deny me the choice?"

He laughed nervously. His voice seemed completely disconnected as if he was lost in his own thoughts. "Well, I didn't know if it would work or not and I didn't want to have to make a commitment. . . hmm . . . I do not know if that's the right word . . .perhaps that I didn't want to make 'assurances' is more apt . . ."

Molly didn't wait to let him finish his ruminations. She shakily rose to her feet. She clutched at her breast. She was shattered. She wanted to reach in and massage her strained heart just to soothe the ache setting in.

"So, I-I was an experiment."

His eyes snapped up and widened. His lips parted and his chin went back.

"Molly, perhaps I have not explained myself well . . . but you asked me about something very specific . . . "

Tears slipped from her eyes and ran down her cheeks. She turned partially away. Before she could stop it, a sob welled up and erupted from her chest.

"How could you?" She cried. "How could you do that to me?"

Sherlock jumped up. She staggered backwards to distance herself from him. He kept shaking his head.

"There was no correct way to try, Molly. He's always right. Always! No matter what my course, he's always right. And see, now I've lost you anyways."

Molly panted as her breaths quickly cycled. She felt lightheaded. "S-stop it. Just stop it."

He stepped forward but she moved away again. She couldn't believe it. Everything everyone had warned her about had been absolutely true. Tremors wracked her body. Her legs felt like jelly. Then, she couldn't stand anymore. She slumped down to the floor.

"Don't touch me," she whispered as he rushed to her side.

"Let me help you. You are in distress. I think I may have worded this badly because you have misunderstood . . ."

Molly felt dizzy. "I-I understand p-perfectly."

The room around her swirled. She attempted to stand up but crumpled. Next thing she knew, Sherlock scooped her up in his arms and cradled her against his chest. She closed her eyes and breathed in his heady scent. She sobbed. Leave it to Sherlock to rip out her heart but then leave her wanting more.

"Let me go," she said weakly.

His gruff response fanned the hairs on the top of her head. "Never."


	26. Chapter 26

"Molly, are you well?"

Molly nodded quickly and took a sip of her tea. She made a face and set it back down. It tasted abdominally sweet for having only mixed in her usual two packets of sugar. When she looked back up at John, she smiled tightly.

"I'm fine, really. Just a bit under the weather. Y-you look well."

John did look fit, at least in comparison to the last time she saw him. He was not quite so drawn and much tidier in appearance.

He raised his brows. "We've quite swapped states, Molly. I don't think I've ever seen you looking so peaky and . . . what's happened to your wrist?"

Her eyes tingled. "John, I didn't come to visit to discuss myself."

She glanced around his flat to calm herself. When she had been there last, she had been so full of hope. Sherlock had kissed her for the first time, confessed some sort of attachment and they had held hands like sweethearts. The memories felt like they belonged to someone else.

"Molly, what's that prat done to you? Oh, God, listen to me." John stood up and started pacing.

She sniffled. "Don't worry about it. Look, I have something to tell you."

John sat back down beside her and took her hand. "No, I need to clear something up first. Time has given me some perspective. I –uh- I was wrong to tell you about what Sherlock did."

"John, it doesn't matter . . ."

"No, please listen. I wasn't just wrong to tell you. I was plain wrong. I said some things in anger and heartbreak that were unfair. I let my grief cloud my judgement of him. Really, Molly, he is not a perfect man, not at all, but neither am I. Christ, I b-bloody miss him. Does he hate me for what I said, you think?"

Tears dampened her eyes. "I'm pretty sure he would overlook anything you said, John. If he's capable of loving anyone, it's you."

"No, Molly, not just me. He has the ability to be so much more. He just gets in the way of himself, the stupid git."

"He is s-stupid, isn't he?" She sobbed.

John nodded emphatically. "Oh, yes, especially when it comes to you."

Molly buried her face in her hands. She cried for a few minutes as John rubbed her back. When she had settled down, he drew her into his arms and rested his chin on her head.

"You were right about him, though," she whispered. "He can be so cold."

"Damn. What's he done this time?"

Molly hadn't intended to talk about Sherlock and herself at all but she couldn't bottle it in anymore. She poured her heart out and filled John in on most of what had happened the last few weeks (minus the more salacious details) as John listened silently.

"Bollocks. I never thought him capable."

She hiccupped. "I know. He said such cruel things . . ."

John coughed a couple times. "Oh, erm, right. That's totally what I meant."

Molly looked up at him in confusion. "What?"

John made an 'eek' face and twitched his brows. "Um, ah, so, what did you come to tell me?"

She furrowed her brows, sat up and reached over to her bag where she drew out her final report on Mary's death.

"I am sorry this took so long," she said in a small voice, "but I determined how Mary died."

She held the document out. He took it from her with shaking hands.

"Do I want to read this?"

She dipped her head. "I'm sorry. I know this is hard but I hope it can give you closure."

John scanned the report. His brow softened. "Blood clot? From her birth control? "

Molly took a steadying breath and met his eyes squarely. She did not want him to have any doubts. "Yes."

His eyes misted over. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. John, I have seen this before. Sherrinford didn't kill Mary. He wanted us to believe that but he wasn't responsible. If you think back, were there signs? Shortness of breath, dizziness, leg pain or swelling?"

John rubbed a hand over his face. "She was very tired all the time. I thought it was due to having a newborn . . ."

A thought struck him and his face blanched. He blinked a couple of times.

"She complained about her ankles once, her left leg especially. W-was it the left leg?"

Molly affirmed that with a quick nod. John's next breath stuttered and a bit of a whimper escaped his mouth.

"Oh, o-oh." He shook his head as his eyes watered. "Oh, God, she asked me if the pregnancy swelling would ever go away. I should have known better. It goes away almost immediately after birth . . ."

Molly clutched his hand and squashed his fingers in reassurance. "John, listen to me or you'll drive yourself crazy. You had no way of knowing. Even Mary didn't suspect anything and she would have needed to . . . I mean, you can't start looking for an answer unless you first have a question."

Sobs shook his shoulders. He bent forward and put his head in his hands. "That God-damned Sherrinford Holmes knew. He fucking knew!"

Molly gritted her teeth. "No, John, he didn't. He's not a god despite what he'd have us all believe."

John sat forward for several minutes as his shoulders heaved. When he looked back up, his eyes were bloodshot.

"I am dying without her, Molly. I can't . . . I can't raise Elizabeth without her or her love. I don't even know where to start."

Yes, John had loved Mary. His eyes were haunted with the intensity of it and the pain she saw there was unbearable. Molly gulped down a lump before she whispered through strained vocal cords.

"You start by asking for help, John, and I will answer your call, any time of the day or night. We will all of us just have to try to make up for her absence," she wiped a tear from her eye, "and don't despair, please. Bethie will know her mother's love because she entrusted it to you."

John's face twisted in pain again but he nodded vigorously. "Yes, y-you're right. Thank-you, Molly. For the first time since I lost her, I-I think I might be able to bear it. Thank-you."

* * *

"I have already doubled the security detail at her flat, Sherlock. You must convince her that it is not in her best interest to stay there if you believe it is unsafe. Besides, I thought you had one of your 'operatives' there."

Sherlock groaned and rolled his head back on his chair. He scratched at the stubble on his chin and puffed out a breath of frustration as he stared at the ceiling.

"Daniel is the only reason I have not kidnapped her for her own good," he growled. "Arg! But she will figure him out sooner or later and the situation will become untenable."

"Hmm, do you think he will tip her off? I thought he was firmly in your pocket."

Sherlock threw an arm over his eyes. "Daniel won't say anything but she is maddeningly perceptive. I cannot seem to put anything past her anymore. I don't think that I could convincingly lie to her if my life depended on it. I don't understand. Have I completely lost it?"

Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the floor a couple of times. "I do not think that's the problem."

"Then what? What do I do? She does not . . . trust me anymore."

Mycroft laughed. "Imagine that!"

Sherlock flopped his head forward and glowered at his brother. "Do not make light of this! She is putting herself in harm's way just to spite me."

Mycroft raised his brows and smirked. "Molly Hooper does not have a spiteful bone in her body."

Sherlock looked away. "No . . . she does not."

Mycroft sighed. "Why do you need to lie to her, brother mine?"

Sherlock's head snapped back. "Don't ask stupid questions."

Mycroft blinked lazily a couple times. "I'm serious. What would be so catastrophic if the good doctor knew the truth? She's going to wheedle it out of you anyways. It's only a matter of time."

"Pfft. What truth?"

The older Holmes widened his eyes and rolled them in exasperation. "My God, Sherlock, surely you cannot be so completely clueless about your little pathologist and yourself for that matter. She has sorted you out almost completely save for one little detail. When she figures out the final piece, there will not be a move you can make she won't know in advance."

Sherlock pulled at his hair. "What the hell are you going on about?"

Mycroft laughed. "Ooh, this is rich. I almost don't want to tell you it's so entertaining."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You don't know anything about Molly."

His brother smiled smugly and relaxed back against his chair. "Indeed."

Several tense moments passed until Sherlock pushed himself up out of his chair and shook out his robe. He stepped into his slippers and started towards his kitchen. Just before he set foot in it, he whirled around with his chin in the air. He stared across the room with a distant look in his eyes. He felt a tremor flit through his lids. His lips parted.

"Molly is a macro," he murmured.

Mycroft smiled. "Bringing up the rear as usual."

Sherlock's eyes flicked to his brother. "How could I have missed it?"

Mycroft sighed. "To be fair, I did not figure it out until recently. She has extraordinary abilities. I quite intend to have her sit in on my next meeting with the Russians and tell me if they're negotiating in good faith or not."

"But it's not typical. I mean, how do we even measure it?"

"I don't think there are metrics for what she can do, Sherlock. There are some who don't even believe emotional intelligence is a separate quantifiable characteristic of the human psyche but if anyone has it in spades, it's Doctor Hooper. Given a bit of training and focus, I'd wager she could pick out murderers in a crowd."

Sherlock leaned against the entryway into the kitchen. "That's what's got Sherrinford so damn confused, isn't it? He can't assess her because he's emotionally inept. Whereas, she can read him like a book."

Mycroft nodded. "You know what we need to do now that we know what we know, don't you?" He said matter-of-factly. "We need to get them in the same room together."

* * *

Molly grabbed the first box she saw on the shelf in the family planning section in the busy pharmacy just down the street from John's flat. Her conversation with him had been rough but it had spurred her to answer a question she'd had of her own health. She shakily turned away to conceal her actions as she read the packaging. It not only claimed to be the most accurate test on the market, but could tell you how far along you were. She chewed her lip.

Didn't matter anyways, she would be testing herself again later at the lab. Probably more than once.


	27. Chapter 27

Molly looked out her peephole and saw Anthea dressed smartly as usual staring down at her cell. She slid the chain aside and opened the door.

"Um, hello, what brings you here?"

Anthea produced a file from behind her back. "Morning, Dr. Hooper! Sherlock said you wanted to look at these medical records. The ones that Sherrinford monkeyed with, that is."

Molly felt a pang in her heart. She was one part disappointed and another part relieved Sherlock had not brought the files himself. She stepped aside and allowed Anthea to enter.

She did not even know how she would greet Sherlock if he did show up so maybe she was leaning towards relief. The day before she had taken her pregnancy test and then verified the results at Bart's. Sherlock would know the instant he saw her face what she had learned. She couldn't predict whether he would be relieved or disappointed. She didn't even know herself what she thought. She was still trying to come to terms with everything.

"Um, thank-you, I guess. I hope it's not an inconvenience but I wanted to contribute."

Anthea smiled. "Of course, Dr. Hooper. At this point, anything you could help with would be much appreciated. We still aren't sure what he's been doing. Anyways, in here you'll see hundreds of requisitions that have been tampered with from all over the country. Our team has highlighted the changes. Well, the ones they managed to figure out in any event. It's bizarre. His modus operandi seemed to include some phantom finding of a disease in the pathological work that then led to an unwarranted treatment. Some of these people died pretty horribly, just like the Leeds brothers, but none of them appear to be connected so we're not sure why he targeted the people he did."

Molly let out a breath. "Okay, well, I will do my best. Erm, would you care for tea or something?"

Anthea shook her head. "I just wanted to pop by quickly to drop these off. I have to get going, unfortunately, but thank-you."

"Of course, I appreciate you making the trip."

After Anthea had made her apologies and left, Molly sat down to her kitchen table and started pouring over the files.

For hours she combed through the files and discovered that Sherrinford had an obsession with blood. He found ways to manipulate the requisitions so that technicians performed unnecessary ESR tests, full blood counts, freelite assays, albumin levels and so on. Then he appeared to change the results on the subsequent reports sent to the patient's doctors. The falsified tests pointed towards ailments like cirrhosis of the liver, osteoporosis, and bladder infections just to name a few. Almost all of the affected people ended up receiving medications they didn't need. It was like he was . . . experimenting.

Molly scratched her head. Why would he do that? She squeezed the bridge of her nose.

"Blood, blood, blood . . ."

A cloud of facts and figures swirled about her head. She groaned and looked out her window to the outside. A gorgeous blue sky beckoned. She needed to get out, go for a walk and clear her head. There were far too many thoughts in her brain vying for her attention.

* * *

Daniel looked up as something flickered out of the corner of his eye. Sunshine backlit the small outline of a female making her way towards him down the alley. He immediately recognized the slight figure of Ms. Molly Hooper as she strode with both purpose and trepidation at the same time. He recognized the way she walked a mile away. He smiled until it pulled at every corner of his face. He hadn't seen her all that much in the last few weeks but she'd been home every night for the past couple days and in that time he realized how much he missed the way she fretted over him. He couldn't remember the last time anyone really cared whether he lived or died.

"Hu-llo, Miss," he called as enough light reflected enough around them to finally illuminate her face. "What brings you back here?"

She smiled nervously. "I wanted to see how you were getting on."

Daniel shrugged. "Not so bad now that the nights are gettin' warmer."

Her brow furrowed. "I do not understand why you insist on staying out here like a vagrant. Why won't you at least consider that bed I found you at St. Harrow's? It's a nice place, really."

Daniel cast his eyes down. He didn't like lying to her. He wasn't in such a bad way, truth be told. His grandmother could take him in at any time and would if he showed up on her doorstep. However, he hated being a burden or worse, a disappointment. Besides, Mr. Holmes made sure he always had a bit of coin, a mobile he needn't remember to top up the minutes on and dragged him out of the nastier flop houses whenever he fell off the wagon. He owed that odd duck his life, he figured, so Daniel would do whatever needed to protect the man's lady.

"Not my bag, Ma'am."

Ms. Hooper huffed out a breath and crossed her arms.

"Why do men insist on being so pigheaded?" She mumbled.

He laughed. "'Cause we're pigs."

She sighed and gave him a motherly look of disapproval. "Well then, here, piglet."

She held out her hand. In it was what looked like a debit card. He took it and turned it over.

"Ah, nah, what's this?"

"It's a coffee card for that 24 hour place down the way. It's tied to an account of mine. I'll put a few quid on it every now and then. I want you to go there and get yourself a cuppa and hang out when it gets cold."

He frowned and tried to shove it back into her hand. She stepped away with her palms up.

"No, I insist. It's either you take it or I give it to the next college kid I see."

Daniel wasn't used to getting something for nothing. At least with Mr. Holmes, he earned his keep.

"Whatcha want then?" He asked.

She smiled sadly. "I know you use. I've dealt with drug addicts before. I don't want anything, erm, except . . ."

Daniel held his breath. There was always something.

Ms. Hooper wrinkled her nose as she thought. "Just try for me, every once in a while, to skip the fix and have a cup of coffee instead. If you can do that one time, you can do it more than once and then maybe one day, you won't shoot up at all."

Daniel swallowed. The devil on his back chuckled (as if he could be so easily dislodged). She was silly to think that would help, really, but he appreciated her sentiment.

He smirked. "Alright. I'll try."

Her lips curved into that sad smile again. He had to look away because her eyes spoke volumes. He changed his mind, she wasn't so silly. She knew it was pretty much futile to shake off his demon just as he did.

"Have a good day then."

"You too, Miss."

"I'd say see you later, but I really don't want that. One day, I hope to pass by here and discover you've gone and I can imagine you're somewhere warm and safe."

He nodded. "I'll do what I can to please ya, Miss."

Daniel watched her walk back down the shadowed alleyway and into the streaming sunshine. She paused at the sidewalk juncture and looked up the street. A plume of vapors from an exhaust vent swirled up behind her and caught the sun to the effect she looked like she had a pair of bright, white wings. Without even thinking, he retrieved his mobile and snapped a picture.

He attached the picture to a text and sent it off to his patron.

 _Just been visited by an angel. – D_

* * *

Sherlock felt a buzz in his pocket. He pulled out his phone and with a couple of quick gestures, opened the picture message sent from Daniel.

Molly. His pathologist. He skimmed a thumb over the form on the screen. He did not like feeling this way, as if he was sputtering for air after having slipped under the surface of a deep, dark lake. How many times had she forgiven him for being . . . well, him? He had taken her generosity for granted as if it were an infinite resource and never really believed there was anything he could do to push her too far. This time felt different though, like she'd been a bit of parchment that had caught fire and burned up between his fingers.

He sucked in a breath through his teeth and curled his fingers into his palms so forcefully that his nails almost pierced his flesh. Every time he even approached the thought that this might be it, that she might be lost forever, his brain threatened to implode. He couldn't fathom his life sans Molly. She lived in the periphery of his vision at all times. She haunted the rooms of his mind palace as a poltergeist (constantly moving things, infuriating!). She had attached herself to his conscience like a tumor that's malignancy threatened to spread. If he attempted to delete her, there would be so many gaps in his grey matter that people would think he was suffering from Alzheimer's.

He dragged himself up from his chair. He stood a moment and wallowed in the yawning silence of his flat. With shaking hands, he strode to his hallway and plucked his Belstaff from a hook on the wall. When he slouched into his trench coat, it felt heavier than usual. He wrapped his scarf around his neck but it constricted his throat. He tugged it loose. With a large inhalation of air, he practiced his composure and attempted to gather courage.

Memories spun around him. His fall from Bart's. His narrow escape from Mary's bullet. His near exile after Magnussen's death. None of those events felt as daunting nor as terrifying as what he was about to do - throw himself on Molly's mercy and beg her forgiveness.

Sherlock tilted his chin once. "I can do this."

Then he opened the door. Instead of an empty hall, unnaturally blue eyes shone back at him.

"Greetings, little brother, how are you this fine day?" Sherrinford Holmes asked in a syrupy voice.

Sherlock glanced from his brother's sickly smile to a shiny object in his hand and felt his stomach drop. Sherrinford waved a small caliber handgun around.

He looked at it and then back to Sherlock. "Oh, I know, I know. It's not very creative but I don't have the energy to fight you. Let's go, shall we? I'm double parked."


	28. Chapter 28

Molly stepped into Mycroft Holmes' lavishly furnished office. She whistled as she looked around. His office was larger than her flat!

"Hello, Dr. Hooper, what can I do for you?"

She smiled tightly at the stoic man sitting behind his large oak desk. He belonged in another century. In fact, the whole room belonged in a different era like when Britain was an empire with tentacles that spanned the globe. She could envision him as a steward of the mighty crown. Heck, she could even believe things were still that way.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes, I am sorry to bother you. I've been looking at the files Anthea brought me and I have a theory . . ."

He rose as she approached and gestured at one of his leather guest chairs. "Really? Please, do sit down. Do you need anything? Coffee? Tea? If you have solved this whole Sherrinford business, I'll have the queen bestow the title of dame on you."

She laughed nervously as she sat down. "Ah, I'm good, actually."

He twitched his brows. "Fair enough. You may earn it yet on your own."

She gave him a quizzical look. "Um, sure."

He returned to his seat. "So, what have you hypothesized?"

She cleared her throat. "Well, I started to see a pattern in the types of tests and treatments Sherrinford manipulated through those requisitions and I believe . . ."

Before she could finish her thought her phone interrupted her by alerting with a message, then again when she tried to continue speaking, and once more as she closed her mouth. Just after that, Mycroft's cell rattled on the desk not once, but also three times. He narrowed his eyes.

"Normally, I would ignore this," he muttered as he picked up his mobile, "but I do not believe in coincidences."

She nodded quickly. "Neither do I."

Molly almost tore her bag as she jerked it open and yanked out her phone. Her heart started hammering in her chest as soon as she read the messages.

 _Help me, Miss Molly._

 _I'm dying without you._

 _Be a good girl now and do what you're told. – S_

She covered her mouth as she gasped. Her hands started shaking so violently that she almost dropped her mobile in her lap.

"Oh, God," she whispered.

Mycroft frowned as he read his messages. His lips parted.

"What does yours say?" He asked after a stunned moment of silence.

She couldn't repeat it. She gulped back tears and shoved her cell in his direction. He scanned it quickly. The crease between his brows deepened as he handed it back to her.

"Damn."

"Wh-what did he send you?"

"Directions, but I don't think you should . . . "

Molly jumped up and snatched his phone from his grasp.

 _Call off your hounds._

 _Send her to 627 Grantham alone and give her space. A mile perimeter should do._

 _Or I kill him! Your call. - S_

Molly tossed his phone on his desk and spun away. She needed to get to Sherlock. Before she could take a single step, Mycroft's hand fell on her shoulder.

"Wait, Molly!"

It was strange to hear her addressed so familiarly by Mycroft. She turned back to him but her eyes were so clouded by moisture she could barely make out his features.

"Let me go!" She wiped away tears.

"Dr. Hooper . . . you of all people know you will not win by playing by his rules. Please, we have precious little time. Tell me what you learned about Sherrinford. This may be our only chance to stop him."

* * *

Of course 627 Grantham Street was a poorly lit building in a dingy part of London. It was like Sherrinford followed some sort of creeptastic movie script in luring her to her doom at sunset. Molly approached the front door of the one-time shop cautiously. What an oddity the place was, a single story stone structure wedged between two Victorian homes that was nothing to look at except she knew it was very, very old by the rough stone foundation.

"Hooper's Baked Goods," she mumbled as she read the faded stenciled lettering on the metal shutters covering the window. "Perfect."

She had never heard of this bakery but then, she wasn't surprised. It looked as if it had been out of business for some time. She pulled at the door handle and discovered that it was unlocked. She swallowed nervously and stepped into the shop.

There was little to see once she was in the front counter and display area. Time had frozen there as if it was a capsule from a couple decades ago. A small cathode-ray tube television sat on the counter next to a large, knobby cash register. Both were covered in a layer of dust. Faded signs hung on the wall with prices for goods that in today's money seemed outrageously cheap. She stood there a moment and looked around, unsure of what to do next. Then she noticed a faint glow of light under the door that led deeper into the building. She tried this door and found it unlocked as well so she continued on.

A narrow hall lit by a single, flickering overhead bulb led past an old two piece bathroom to another door. She shook her head. How many doors would she have to go through? This had to be it, she thought, as the light was much brighter beneath it. With determination, she pushed through the final barrier and saw her consulting detective. Air she'd disturbed when she opened the door ruffled his hair.

Sherlock kneeled on top of something with his head hanging down in the middle of the empty heart of the old bakery. Most of the equipment had long been removed. She could just see a bit of his profile. She held her breath a moment afraid of what she might see. Was he hurt? Fear caused a flush of adrenaline through her body. She started shaking as she approached him.

Sherlock's head came up and swivelled on his neck towards her. A cry caught in her throat. She was not prepared to see a man who looked as if he were meeting his end. His flesh was colorless like a discarded advertisement left in the sun too long. Lines pulled at every corner of his face. When their eyes met, his bottom lip trembled. His lids were red rimmed as if he had been crying. She didn't know what had happened but she felt his pain lance through to her very soul. He dropped his head again briefly and squeezed his eyes shut. Tears fell from each of his tightly closed lids to the floor where they wetted the concrete floor. She couldn't breathe. Little pricks of pain exploded throughout her chest.

"Oh, God, w-why are you here?" He asked with a sob.

Molly held her hand to her chest. She wanted to fly to him but something was amiss. He kneeled on a large electronic scale, the kind used to measure bags of flour. The indicator behind him showed his weight at 185 lbs.

She approached him cautiously. "Sherlock, what has he done to you?"

He looked uncomfortable. Sweat beaded his brow.

His voice was a strangled whisper. "I-I can't bear it. You shouldn't have come. Has Mycroft n-no sense at all?"

Molly dropped to her knees in a reflection of his pose. "Of course I would come. E-every time . . . always, always . . ."

"Arg, don't you get it?" His eyes opened and pierced her straight through. "He counted on that."

Molly studied his pose. Oh, this was a message for her, she knew. Sherlock on his knees paying penance for his sins. She reached out to touch him but stopped. Her hands hovered near his face.

"What is this? What am I looking at?"

His eyes flicked downwards. "The scale is a trigger Molly. If it drops under 100 pounds, a bomb beneath it detonates."

Molly felt her heart rate quicken. "And the kneeling?"

"He said that he would see if I stood up. I assume there is a camera around here somewhere watching us. How else would he know when you arrived? God, really, you have to go. I'm surprised he hasn't detonated this already. Please Go, Molly, get out of here!"

She shook her head. She thought this would be easy, that she had figured out Sherrinford's plans, but now she was not so sure. If she was wrong, they both could die.

"N-No, not without you . . ."

A couple of sharp claps sounded to their left. Molly looked up into the gleeful, yet reptilian gaze of Sherrinford Holmes standing across the room. He sauntered to within about ten feet of them and paused.

A crocodile-like smile spread across his face. "Oh, Miss Molly, you have not disappointed me at all!"

She hated this man, truly hated him. She scrambled to her feet. Sherlock grabbed her forearm and held her back.

"Molly, don't."

The numbers on the indicator behind Sherlock fluctuated. Her breath caught. She glowered at the black suited figure of Sherrinford. "Stop this! Let him up!"

He twitched his brows up a couple of times and smiled. "Oh, I don't think so. You have no idea how happy it makes me to see him that way."

She felt hot all over. She thought she would be afraid of this man but instead, she was just really pissed. She tried to jerk her arm out of Sherlock's grasp with the intent of stalking up to Sherrinford and slapping the smirk off his face, but the flash of something shiny in his hand gave her pause.

He waved his handgun around with a flourish. "Ah, ah, ah! Just stay right there. I'm going to kill you, of course, but I'd rather not just yet. I want to play one more game."

"Brother, l-listen to me," Sherlock said quickly, "your issue is not with Molly. It's with me. Please, let her go. For the love of God, let her go. I . . . I beg you . . ."

Sherrinford frowned and gestured to Molly. "I have an issue with her! Of course I have a fucking issue with her. She's a fucking garbled line of code I can't decipher."

Molly watched as he pointed his gun at Sherlock. "And you need to be quiet! I will splatter her brains all over your stupid coat. I swear it on my life."

A tremor pulsed through Sherrinford's brow. His hold tightened on his gun but she saw him draw his finger from the trigger. He swung the gun back in her direction.

"Truth or dare?" He hissed.

She was shocked into silence for a moment.

"TRUTH OR DARE?!" He screeched.

Molly looked down at Sherlock. His lips were pressed in a tight, thin line. Her eyes flitted back to Sherrinford.

"T-truth," she stuttered.

He chuckled. "Oh, yes, that's what I thought you would say."

"Get on with it, then!"

Sherrinford paced backwards a few steps. "Alright, ooh, I'm all a-tingles! So, Molly, tell me, what was the first thing Sherlock ever said to you?"

Molly bit her lip. She would never forget the first words he uttered in her presence. Of course, it was something callous and oh so typically Sherlock.

"He said . . . he said my lab was almost as much of a disaster as my taste in clothing."

Sherrinford threw his head back and laughed. "Awww, how did that make you feel?"

Molly saw Sherlock cringe out of the corner of her eye. She lifted her chin.

"Nevermind," she said softly, "and that's not how we play the game. It's your turn. Truth or dare?"

He raised a brow and narrowed his eyes at her. "Truth."

Molly clicked her molars together. For a moment she couldn't think of anything she wanted to ask. Then a question popped into her mind.

"Who was Magnussen to you?"

Sherlock's voice was a warning. "Molly . . ."

Sherrinford ran his tongue over his teeth.

"Well, this is getting tetchy fast. Hmm, Magnussen was my information broker," He looked at Sherlock. "What a fucking waste that was, little brother! He wasn't just a blackmailer, his knowledge was priceless and you just blew him away for some insignificant army doctor and his even more inconsequential wife."

Sherlock scoffed. "You know very well Mycroft figured out he was working for you after the whole Lady Smallwood affair. You really couldn't resist meddling in governmental affairs, could you? You practically authored Magnussen's death warrant yourself."

Sherrinford strode to Sherlock in three steps and pressed the gun against his temple. "And you had to be the despatcher? I have to admit you surprised me on that. I didn't anticipate how easily you could abandon your morals."

Molly looked back and forth between the brothers. Again, Molly observed Sherrinford's finger retract from the trigger as he threatened Sherlock. His shoulders drooped. For all his bluster, he seemed to be fighting fatigue. Sherlock was not in much better shape. His face was waxen and drawn.

"Mycroft asked y-you to kill Magnussen?" Molly asked Sherlock in a small voice.

"Yes."

Sherrinford pushed at Sherlock's head with his gun. "Did he now?"

Sherlock's eyes were wet again. He nodded with the gun to his temple. Molly was livid at every other Holmes male right then but also beyond heartbroken. How awful for him. How goddamned unfair to be pressed upon to carry out Mycroft's dirty work and then have to live with the death of that terrible man on his conscience. Sherlock hadn't been the same since around that time. He'd been dark and tortured and made some awful, awful decisions. Even now, he could barely meet her gaze because he was wracked with guilt.

"But, you didn't have to do it, Sherlock," She whispered. "You could have turned Mycroft down."

He swallowed. "I did. Several times."

"Then how did he convince you. . ." Molly dropped to her knees in front of him again. She desperately wanted to smack away Sherrinford's gun but wouldn't risk her detective. "Please tell me."

Sherlock's lips trembled with a spasm. His bloodshot eyes met hers wide and luminous with the certainty he had all but lost.

"It was you, Molly. It was always about you."


	29. Chapter 29

" _It was you, Molly. It was always about you."_

Molly felt her brows bunch in confusion. "M-me, Sherlock? What do you mean?"

"Yes, what are you yammering about?" Sherrinford bit out.

She glared up at the older Holmes. "Stop pointing that at him!"

"Certainly," he said icily, "this better?"

The hard steel of the gun's muzzle pressed against the back of her head. Sherlock's eyes narrowed and his lips turned down. Anger rippled across his face. He started to stand up on the scale but Sherrinford shook his head vigorously. Molly grabbed his hand and wordlessly implored him to stay put.

"Stay down!" Sherrinford barked. "But do go on. Enlighten us about Miss Molly's part in my asset's death."

"If you would just take the gun off her," Sherlock ground out.

"You are not in the position to demand anything . . ."

"Take. The. Gun. Off. Her. NOW!"

Sherrinford glowered for several seconds but eventually stepped back with a smirk. "Fine, but only because you have me on the edge of my seat."

Molly's eyes searched her detective's face. "Sherlock?"

It was like the world fell away then and they were encapsulated in a bubble. Time slowed. His strained, ragged breaths filled her ears. He looked down briefly, his lips moved as if rehearsing what he was going to say, then he met her gaze once more.

"Magnussen was incredibly dangerous, Molly, and what made him exceptionally so was his connection to Sherrinford. When I uncovered who he was working for, I tried to find something that would put him away but Mycroft and the government weren't interested in half-measures. They also did not want to appear as if directly involved. So, I was asked to assassinate him. I-I turned it down. Over and over I turned it down because it meant giving up my life . . . giving up . . . you."

Molly stopped breathing. Air burned in her lungs. "Wh-what?"

His eyes widened and became distant, as if he were transfixed by a memory. "And blast! I kept hearing your voice in my head telling me it was _wrong_."

She was having trouble processing his admissions. Her heart hammered beneath her ribs. "But then why change your mind?"

His voice dropped an octave. "Because I found out he had begun amassing information on you. He had deduced your, ahem, _importance_ to me despite my best efforts in distracting him by dating Janine and so on. I knew then it was only a matter of time before he shared what he collected with Sherrinford. I couldn't . . . I could not let you be a target, Molly. He had to die."

Molly reeled. She wobbled backwards and sat down on her bum in the cold cement floor.

"You dated Janine. You k-killed Magnussen . . . for me? Wh-why?"

Sherrinford let out a snort. "I should think that part is sickeningly obvious."

A tear slipped down Sherlock's cheek. He looked away.

" _Oh, God!"_ Molly thoughts raced. " _All this time."_

The realization of his depth of feelings for her hit her like a cinder block to the chest. She searched his face. He held his breath in anticipation. He was terrified like nothing she'd ever seen. His eyes were that sort of overly round which gave him away. He was scared of what she thought about him and his feelings.

She felt as if she were breathing a soupy fog. It couldn't be . . . but there it was in all its naked glory.

Sherlock Holmes was in love with her.

And had been for some while.

If she didn't want to launch herself into his arms so badly, she'd slap his face for having put her through so much emotional torture and second guessing of herself.

"Why didn't you tell me? About all of it! Especially Magnussen . . . you didn't have to suffer that alone."

Sherlock's head dropped slightly. He looked from under his brows. "Molly, you are so special in the way you are and how you look at the world. I did not want you to ever think you were responsible in any part for the death of that man. It is a burden I never wanted you to inflict on you."

Sherrinford groaned. "Oh, Christ, I do not think I can endure another second of this. Come, Miss Molly, step away. It's time to meet your maker, so to speak."

"Sherrinford, stop! What do you want? What can I do?" Sherlock pleaded.

Sherrinford's eyes flashed. Molly cried out as he grabbed a handful of her hair and then yanked her to her feet. Her scalp burned painfully. Sherlock lurched forward on the scale. Again, the numbers dipped before coming back up.

"I will kill you, Sherrinford. I will rip your heart out with my bare hands!"

"Stay put, you stupid dog! This is your fault. I told you that you could never have this. Now it's up to me to show you I was right, that I have always been right!"

Molly winced as his fingers twisted in her hair. She closed her eyes.

"Turn around!" He commanded. "I want to see the life leave your face."

" _Courage. Have courage,"_ she told herself.

She opened her eyes when she felt the barrel of the gun forced against her forehead. His finger slipped onto the trigger. He was going to kill her, of that she had no doubt. He had a grim set to his face. His tongue moistened his lips.

"Dare!" She cried.

His lips twitched and he squinted. "I'm bored of games now. Besides, It's not your turn to ask."

She gulped in a breath. "Doesn't matter. Do you accept my challenge or not?"

She watched as he gave his head a half-shake. He blinked once and his nostrils flared as he sucked in a breath. She had surprised him again and he did not like it.

"Do your worst," he spat.

Molly lifted her chin. "Kill Sherlock."

Sherrinford froze for a moment with a stunned look on his face. He stepped back, uncertain, and then stumbled. His hand flew to his temple.

"Gaa," he flinched, "y-you . . . I . . ."

Molly's eyes flicked sideways to Sherlock who had risen to his feet. He was absolutely flabbergasted. He looked like a very confused little boy. She wished she could reassure him but there was no time.

"I said kill Sherlock! I double-stamp dare you to do it, you coward."

Sherrinford glowered at her as he composed himself. She had shocked him but her ruse wouldn't last long. She needed him closer to Sherlock again. She looked at her dumbfounded detective.

"Molly . . ."

" _Please, trust me now. A moment is coming, you need to be ready,"_ she attempted to communicate with her eyes.

As Sherrinford moved forward again Molly stepped next to Sherlock on the scale. His eyes widened.

"What are you doing?"

She shoved him hard. He staggered off the scale, tripped and fell on his arse. She glanced to the indicator as it stabilized at 121 pounds.

"What are you waiting for?" She shouted at Sherrinford. "Kill Sherlock. Then go on and leave me here to die. Go ahead!"

She gambled with all their lives, this she knew. She could be wrong, so very wrong, but at least she wasn't afraid of death this time. She would die knowing Sherlock loved her, with only the minor regret that their time together was so brief.

Sherrinford pointed a trembling hand in Sherlock's direction. For a moment, Molly's stomach dropped. Then, a trickle of blood ran from Sherrinford's nose. Sherlock stood up again but his demeanor was uncertain.

"What's the matter?" Molly asked quietly, "Forgot to take your Cyklokapron today?"

A quiver of Sherrinford's cheek gave him away.

Sherlock glanced quickly between the two of them. "Molly? Is he going to kill me or not?"

"No," she smiled. "No, he's not."

Sherrinford whirled on her. "You don't know anything!"

"You said it yourself, Sherrinford. I've seen death," her smile spread, "which means I know it when I see it."

"Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

"Molly, explain please," Sherlock prompted.

She folded her arms casually and leaned back against the stanchion that housed the scale's indicator.

"He's dying from cancer, Sherlock. Myeloma to be more specific. His only hope is a bone marrow transplant. He needs you because you're a match. Unfortunately, none of the rest of your family is so, thus, he won't kill you."

Sherlock absorbed the information coolly. He narrowed his eyes as he assessed his brother then ever so languidly brushed some dirt from his coat and adjusted his cuffs. She saw a smirk tug one corner of his lips. He took a step towards Sherrinford.

"Stay back! Stay back or I-I kill her."

"And what? Let your bomb detonate? That's hardly conducive to the extension of your life."

Sherrinford backed away. "I am warning you! Don't test me. You know I am a good shot. I can make sure she falls right down on the scale!"

Sherrinford gestured the gun towards her again. She tensed.

"Um, yeah, you don't want to kill me either."

"Oh, I soooo do . . ."

Her eyes flitted nervously to Sherlock. This isn't how she envisioned doing this.

Her nose wrinkled. "Well, um yeah, you don't because, ahem, you see . . . I'm pregnant. So, it might not be all that great an idea to kill the mother of a potential second donor."

Sherrinford's eyes lost some of their vividness as they glazed over. He was so weak. She could see his strength failing as blood poured from his nose. He held his free arm against his face in attempt to stem the flow. His hand trembled and began to lower. Sherlock was behind him in an instant.

"One good shot to the lower spine ought to do it," Molly murmured.

"Noted."

Sherlock wound up and drove a fist into Sherrinford's spine. Sherrinford jerked forward and then crumpled with a grunt of pain. The gun clattered to the floor. Sherlock picked it up and held it on his brother who laid sideways on the whining on the floor.

"Ack, you b-bloody caveman. You've cracked my vertebrae!"

Sherlock armed the gun deliberately. "How do I disable the bomb? Hurry now or they'll be scooping your grey matter up off the concrete."

Sherrinford writhed and moaned. Sherlock fired the gun next to his head into the floor. The loud crack of it echoed off the stone walls of the bakery. The injured man's histrionics ceased.

"T-there's no bomb!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Are you kidding me!?"

Sherrinford clutched at his back and laughed in hysterical pain. "God, what do you think? Who has time for such things? You always were so easy to fool . . ."

Sherlock looked at Molly with a raised brow. "Is he lying?"

She sighed. "No, he's telling the truth."

She took a breath and hopped off the scale. Nothing happened save for a beep when the red electronic indicator on the scale reset to zero. Sherlock's lips stretched into a thin line. He gripped the gun until his knuckles were white.

"I should end you," he growled.

Sherrinford waved his hands. "But y-you won't!"

Sherlock snorted. Molly was by his side in a heartbeat. She wrapped her hands around his arm and laid her head against his sleeve.

"No, you are right and you have Molly to thank for that."


	30. Chapter 30

Molly watched as Sherrinford was tucked into a dark sedan with tinted windows outside Hooper's (defunct) Bakery. Mycroft and Sherlock flanked her on either side. Her hands hung loosely at her sides as a breeze stirred her hair. She didn't know how she should feel, she was a bit numb actually. He seemed so harmless whining about his back with a wad of tissue pressed against his face. She looked to Mycroft.

"What will you do with him?"

The car whisked Sherrinford away own the dark street.

Mycroft blinked slowly as he watched the sedan disappear and shrugged. "Mm, well, we'll start with a few questions. After that, I am not entirely sure. It will be out of my hands."

"Ridiculous," Sherlock muttered, "he should be given a lobotomy."

Mycroft sighed. "Oh, I don't believe he poses much of a threat in his present state. Besides, his health appears to be rapidly deteriorating. I am not certain we will have to do much of anything except wait out the clock. Rest assured, Dr. Hooper, he will be under twenty-four hour guard until that time."

Molly couldn't help but frown as her conscience was pricked. "S-so, you will not treat him?"

Sherlock made a sharp sound of disbelief. "My God, Molly, your compassion has no limits . . ."

Mycroft smiled and raised his brows. "Well, that's been apparent for an age. How else do you think she's managed to put up with you?"

Sherlock furrowed his brows and rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner. "Oh, shut up, Mycroft."

Molly swallowed as she looked back and forth between the brothers. Even though they sparred, their manner was not caustic as it had been recently. Both seemed more at ease.

"Dr. Hooper," Mycroft said with a grim set to his face, "Sherrinford will be afforded the same respect as anyone in the custody of the British government. He will be cared for and probably better than he ought to be."

She nodded and wrinkled her nose. "I know it probably doesn't make a lot of sense for me to care at all, but my m-mother died of cancer. It was horrible. She s-suffered."

Molly looked down to the sidewalk and scuffed at a crack with her shoe.

"Pain has a way of equalizing us all," she murmured and raised her eyes. "He will regret things at the end w-when he realizes he's not so different from the rest of us."

Sherlock drew her to his side and kissed the top of her head. "You are too good, Molly."

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Well, shall we?"

He tapped his umbrella along the pavement as he sauntered towards his idling transport. He half turned and called back over his shoulder

"Coming?"

En route, Sherlock wasn't very forthcoming on his time spent with Sherrinford, but the few snippets he volunteered made Molly's blood boil. She had to bite her lip to keep from swearing. Soon the discussion turned to her diagnoses.

"Dr. Hooper deduced Sherrinford's malady, actually."

She raised her head from where she'd been resting it against Sherlock's arm.

"Oh, erm, well, I observed a few things during our interactions. He was never quite in control of his faculties. He would shake. He had headaches. His nose bled once. None of these things meant much on their own but then there was the Cyklokapron, um- the tranexamic acid. See, Myeloma is a cancer of the bone marrow, in its end stages platelet counts can be quite low. Patients are often prescribed tranexamic acid because they are susceptible to bleeding and it helps with blood clotting."

"That is why we just found the barest traces of it at the Watson's after he showed up," Mycroft added. "Do go on, Molly- I mean, Dr. Hooper."

She took a breath. "Right. Um, then there were the Leeds brothers and Mycroft's files. Everything kind of gelled. I mean, I think he was looking for a cure. From what I could tell, he first found patients with Myeloma, then set them up for treatments to see what might work such as dosing them with antibiotics. There have been some experimental trials involving other cancers where antibiotic treatments proved successful. That's not all he tried though. There were protein inhibitors, steroids, and well, the list goes on. Many of the people he exposed to these unnecessary treatments died from renal failure just like the Leeds because they too had kidneys weakened from the disease."

Sherlock cataloged the information silently. "Well done, Molly."

She looked up into his hooded eyes. "Truly?"

His fingers skimmed her chin. "Yes, truly. One more thing, though. How did you know I was a donor match for him?"

She suppressed a smile. "Well, part of his searches involved looking for a donor that matched a very specific profile and I, ahem . . .well, I know every characteristic of your blood by heart."

"How very romantic, Dr. Hooper," Mycroft said with a laugh.

Sherlock's lips twitched and he lowered his lashes. Molly felt her heart's pace increase. She could hardly contemplate everything that had gone on that evening, especially Sherlock's revelations. Weariness set in then and she yawned.

"Mm, sorry."

Sherlock squeezed her arm. "We should get you home."

"Ah, yes, well, you can rest easy at your flat tonight, my dear," Mycroft said.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I meant Baker Street. She's coming home with me."

"Sherlock!" Molly protested.

"Er, well, I mean, if she agrees."

"Better," she mumbled and snuggled closer.

"Hmmf, don't even think of sleeping yet, Molly Hooper. We have a something yet to discuss."

* * *

Not two steps inside the darkened entry of Baker Street, Molly was spun at the bottom of the stairs and pressed against the hard form of Sherlock Holmes. He stared at her a moment, his eyes were fathomless, glittering orbs, before his head fell and his mouth claimed hers. His lips fed on hers greedily, almost desperately as if reassuring himself she was real. As ever, her insides turned into a puddle of quivering goo at his touch.

Her hands snaked around his solid body and she latched on to him. She felt on the edge of a cliff with the ground beneath her shifting. She teetered there, clinging to the last of her uncertainties, when she heard his words echo through her mind.

 _"You are so special . . ."_

 _" . . . it meant giving up my life . . . giving up . . . you."_

 _" . . . it was always about you."_

So, she let go and she fell. Her body yielded and she clung to him as her only anchor to the real world. She heard him make a raspy sound in his throat as he inhaled a breath. Then his full lips sought hers again with a groan. She wrapped her arms around his neck and poured every last ounce of herself into him. It didn't matter that Sherrinford had never been all that large a threat to her man, having Sherlock in her embrace then was more of a relief than finding out he was alive after having been shot.

For the next while, they were a tangle of limbs as they clawed at each other. They only came up for air several minutes later and very much disheveled when the creak of Mrs. Hudson's door snapped them back to reality.

"Hmm, I thought I heard something. Tsk, tsk, really Sherlock. That's no way to treat a lady," Mrs. Hudson clucked.

Molly felt her face heat. She must look a wreck! Her statically charged hair stuck to everything. Her cardigan dangled from her cast, having got stuck there, while her tee shirt rode up to just under her bra. Sherlock fared no better. His pale blue shirt, missing several buttons, gaped open and hung loosely about his waist. Additional evidence of their shenanigans littered the immediate area. His Belstaff sagged over the stair railing and threatened to hit the floor. Both pairs of their shoes had been kicked off and strewn about the foyer.

"Apologies," Sherlock murmured. "We'll take it upstairs."

She nodded with bright, rounded eyes. "I should think so."

"Sorry about the disturbance, Mrs. Hudson," Molly added.

"Oh, it's fine. I just don't want to have to disinfect the entry," she twitched her brows. "I'm not a housekeeper, you know."

"Yes, of course."

Sherlock smiled secretly at Molly. He stole a quick kiss and let her go. Mrs. Hudson's voice followed them up the stairs after they had collected their things.

"Does this mean I'll be spared those God awful funeral refrains from your violin tonight, Sherlock?"

He half turned with a smirk on his face. "Yes, although, I can't guarantee it will be quiet."

Mrs. Hudson shook her head with a smile and looked away. "Right, well, I'll leave the tele on then."

Sherlock scooped Molly up into his arms as soon as the door to his flat closed behind them.

"I-I thought we needed to talk," she said with a nervous laugh.

His eyes constricted and traveled over her small form. His nose twitched.

"Later," he mumbled. "Right now, I have a much more pressing concern."

Her actual words faltered while her inner voice screamed, "Yeah, you do!"

Sherlock carried her to his bedroom. He laid her down gently on the bed, flicked on the bedside lamp and stood back up. He stared down at her with eyes dark and forbidding as he took his time first undoing one cuff on his shirt, then the other. She felt tingles wash through her abdomen from the concentrated look in his eyes. She knew they should be talking, sorting things out, and acting like grown-ups with real problems but . . . fuck it, she was excruciatingly aroused by the intensity in his eyes.

She licked her lips. "Just because we're about to, uh, ahem, you know. It doesn't mean you're completely off the hook, mister!" She said, quite a bit breathier than she intended.

He smirked as he slouched out of his shirt. His hand lingered on his belt clasp. Her eyes glanced anxiously to where it hovered and then back to his amused stare. His lids lowered lazily.

He winked. "Yes it does."

Molly suppressed a grin. He was so infuriating when he was right! With a chuckle, he continued to remove his trousers. She yanked off her cardigan and tee with a puff and threw them at him. Her pants followed. With a shake of his head, he kicked her clothing aside and joined her on the bed. When it dipped down she was rolled into the depression against him. Her body went into overdrive as he pulled her tightly to him and his hands mapped her flesh. Long, slender fingers explored her in reverence, trailing across her ribs and over her navel. They lingered on her belly for a few seconds, each digit a feather light point of contact as they strummed her sensitive skin.

She watched as Sherlock's curls fell over his face and partially obscured his profile. He dropped his head and kissed her shoulder. His hand slid to her hip and held her for a moment as his breathing strained. She reached up and wove her fingers into his hair.

"Sherlock?"

He inhaled a ragged breath. "Forgive me, Molly, I am having a moment."

She flipped to her side and faced him. "Are you okay?"

"I am very well, it's just . . . I am having trouble controlling my emotions. There is so much I want to say to you, but the words are all competing in my head. I don't know how to express them properly . . ."

She touched his face. "Don't speak then. Just show me."

He swallowed and nodded. His head descended again and his lips moved against hers gently, slightly moist and pliable. His pace was unhurried yet exhilarating all the same. The leisurely glide of his fingers over her skin around her waist and then down over her bum created a slow burn deep in her belly. His tongue ran over the seam her lips, seeking entry. She felt the soft, sandpaper-like feel of it slip into her mouth and coax hers to dance. With a moan, she opened her mouth fully and invited him in. God, the feel of it and the way he invaded her with his tongue felt like sex in her mouth. The juncture between her legs throbbed.

His cock twitched at her hip and stiffened as it engorged. She bucked her hips involuntarily. Her nerves were super-charged. Her insides clenched. Tingling sensations made her clit ache with need. She felt as if it had been an age since he'd touched her this way and he couldn't move fast enough. She let out a grumble of frustration.

Sherlock tucked her beneath him then. His heavy, heated body settled over hers and his cock pressed hard between her thighs. The light hair dusting his chest tickled her nipples which resulted in goose bumps popping up all over her body. He kissed her again at the same tortuous and unhurried pace. Their skin stuck together. She wriggled beneath him anxiously, loving his imprint. He moved his hips against hers in response.

"Patience," he mumbled against her lips.

She could feel the deep timber of his voice hum through her chest. God, it made her wet.

"Arg, an overrated virtue," she muttered.

He kissed the corner of her lips, earlobe, temple and then the tender flesh between her eyelid and her brow. "But it's always over too soon, Molly. I want time to commit every detail to memory."

She smoothed her hands down his muscular back, the bumps of his spine and over the taut curve of his arse as he continued to tease her with his lips. His body was absolute perfection, a masterpiece of genetic fortune. She wanted to savor him in return but he was testing the limits of her control.

She buried her hands in his soft hair, pulled his head up and mashed her mouth against his insistently. He responded to her urgency by grinding her hips again. His staff pulsed. It was impossibly hard. She wanted him inside her so badly.

"Please," she whispered.

"Do you want me?" He murmured.

"God, yes!"

He dipped his head and licked her nipple, then blew on it until it contracted into a tight bead. She writhed and clutched the sheets. He closed his warm, wet mouth over her other nipple and flicked his tongue back and forth.

He raised his head. "Do you need me?"

Her lips parted as she got lost in his eyes. "Yes."

He propped himself up on one elbow and reached down between her legs. His finger stroked between her folds and rubbed the sensitive point, making her senseless. Then he nudged her entrance with his member.

"Do you belong to me?" He growled.

She clutched his neck and buried her face in his collar. "Y-yes, always."

Inch by inch, he drove into her body. She heard him inhale sharply. He was harder than she'd ever felt him, it almost like having a velvet covered rod push into her body. She could feel every ridge and the catch of his head on her inner walls as he slowly thrust deeper. Soon he was buried so deep, she didn't know where he began and she ended. He felt deliciously foreign and so large that the way he stretched her walls bordered on painful. Then he drew out a little and somehow managed to embed himself even farther on his return. His hard thrust jolted her deep in her abdomen.

He stroked at a glacial pace, each time dragging in and out of her with deliberate, long penetrations. She cupped his bum with her hands. Her loins tightened every time he flexed beneath her fingers and invaded her again. She felt a knot of tension form, a twisting of her insides until she was so wound up she thought she would burst. She clenched around him and tilted her hips up. She needed just a little bit more for her release.

Sensing her need, Sherlock picked up his pace. He caught her fingers in his and held her hands up over her head. Over and over he drove into her body, jarring her insides until she was nearly breathless. A bright light formed behind her eyes and little sparks flew in every direction. The delicious ache between her legs intensified and she felt herself spinning out of control. Then, like a meteor breaking up in the atmosphere, she came apart with a heady cry. Her whole body convulsed, her legs shook and she clung to him.

Sherlock leaned his forehead on hers. She felt a trickle of his sweat slide down her temple. Then, with a few more quick thrusts, he stiffened and sucked in a breath.

"Molly . . . Christ . . . I am yours."

The release of his orgasm sent a tremor through his whole body. His hips jerked as he spent himself. Then he collapsed to the side and gathered her into his arms. Ragged breaths fanned the side of her head. She fiddled with the hair at his nape.

Her heart was overrun. Almost losing him only to regain him so splendidly caused tears of joy and relief to fill her eyes.

"Sherlock , I . . . I love you."

He hugged her closer. "Mm, would you say it again in a few minutes?"

She frowned. "What?!"

His lips brushed her forehead. "Oh, yes, well, it's just . . .I think I would like to hear it again . . . and again for that matter. If you would be so kind."

She gave him a small shove. "Jeesh! You are such a git."

She felt him smile against her face. "Possibly, but you love me anyways."

She sighed with a smile of her own. "Yes, I do."


	31. Chapter 31

Molly awoke to bright sunshine prickling her eyes. She looked over at the clock on Sherlock's bedside table. It was past nine! He was nowhere in sight either. A moment of panic gripped her until the alluring aroma of fresh brewed coffee filled her nostrils. She sat up and glanced around. She had no idea where any of her clothing had ended up. Then she saw one of Sherlock's dressing gowns laid across the end of the bed. She smiled, hopped out of bed and slipped into the oversized garment. She had to roll up the sleeves and drape it at her waist so it wouldn't drag on the floor.

Her face heated as soon as she stepped into the living room and saw Mrs. Hudson cuddling Bethie Watson while John and Sherlock looked on. Before she could turn on her heel and flee back to the bedroom, all three sets of eyes found her.

"Oh, Christ," John's mouth hung open. "I don't think I will ever be able to get used to this."

Mrs. Hudson laughed. "Be grateful you weren't within earshot of them last night."

Molly's skin full-on ignited then. She knew she must be as red as a tulip. Her gaze flitted to Sherlock's. His eyes darkened as they assessed her in his dressing gown. He had that oh-so-sexy, possessive look on his face that made her blood boil. She felt a tingle travel from her toes all the way up to her scalp.

"Care to join us?" He asked.

"Um, sure, if I'm not interrupting anything . . ."

John cleared his throat. "Erm, yeah, actually, I should apologize for interrupting your morning. I just couldn't get Bethie back to sleep. Mrs. Hudson seems to have the magic touch."

Molly shook her head. "God, don't apologize. It's lovely to see you."

She gave him a quick hug when he stood up. Then she leaned over the sleeping baby. She was so very precious. Tears stung Molly's eyes.

"Do you want to hold her?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

Molly looked to John. "May I?"

He nodded quickly. "Of course."

Molly stood for a minute cradling John's tiny bundle in her arms. Bethie gurgled and cooed like a little dove. She felt her throat constrict. Here they all were, a sort of thrown together family missing one of their most important members.

Molly's voice cracked when she spoke. "She's so beautiful, John."

John looked down. His eyes had a sheen to them.

"Thank-you, Molly."

After a few more moments, she handed the little girl back to Mrs. Hudson who had already outstretched her arms and beckoned for her return. Molly looked around. Seating was sparse. Then she heard a pair of taps as Sherlock patted his chair.

"Here," he said.

"Sherlock!" She hissed under her breath.

"Well, you're not sitting on John's lap!" He bit out.

John's head shot up and waggled back and forth. "Oh, what? God, no, go on then."

Molly felt as if she'd been dipped into a mud bath of mortification. Sherlock was lucky he was so damn handsome! He awaited her with raised brows. She rolled her eyes and let him pull her down to his lap. She was secretly thrilled to sit with him, of course. One of his hands rested on her knee while the other played with the hair at the nape of her neck.

John shook his head at the sight. "Ahem, so Sherlock was filling us in on this whole Sherrinford saga. Very well done, Molly."

She cast her eyes down shyly. "It was nothing."

His eyes widened. "It was bloody brilliant. You'll put Sherlock out of a job."

She pressed her lips together as she suppressed a smile. Then she wrinkled her nose as she thought about everything that had transpired.

"Actually, you know, he can have it."

"How magnanimous of you," Sherlock murmured.

She gave him a little elbow to the ribs. Mrs. Hudson handed Bethie back to John. John placed the sleeping child in a car seat next to the sofa.

"I think I'll get another cuppa," Mrs. Hudson said cheerfully.

"Anyways," John pressed as she skittered off. "Sherlock described everything in his usual manner which means I didn't catch half of it. I understand why Sherrinford didn't shoot him, but why do you think you were spared?"

Molly chewed her lip. Sherlock's fingers twirled her hair at the back of her head.

"She told a fib," he said simply.

Molly swallowed. All she could think was, "Uh-oh."

Mrs. Hudson called from the kitchen. "Yoo, hoo, anyone care for a refill? Molly, would you like a cup?"

"Erm, no thank-you, Mrs. Hudson."

John's brows flinched as they came together. "Molly Hooper refusing a cup of coffee? What has the world come to?"

Sherlock's fingers stilled on her nape. His body went rigid beneath hers. She felt his fingers grip her knee. When she turned her head to look at him, he was staring wide eyed at the opposite wall with his lips slightly parted.

"Bloody hell, I hate it when he does that," John complained. "What did I say wrong?"

Molly waved her hand in front of his face. His eyes contracted but he continued to look as if he were gazing at some far off island. After a minute or so, he shook his head and came out of his trance. He was thoroughly flabbergasted. His eyes searched her face.

"Y-you . . ." his words faltered.

He blinked rapidly for several seconds. "Y-y-you were serious."

She slowly bobbed her head once.

"Come on now, someone want to fill us in? I mean, I was kidding. What's really so astonishing about Molly refusing coffee? Unless . . . oh dear Lord . . ."

John sat back with both hands on the top of his head. Then his head fell back in laughter.

John clutched his abdomen and called to Mrs. Hudson. "How do you feel about a couple extra tenants, Mrs. H?"

She returned with a cup of coffee and set it down next to her on the side table.

Her brows lifted. "I'm not bothered. I assumed Molly would live here eventually and I suppose that means her cat as well. Why? Who else are you talking about? Really, Sherlock, I'm not running a hostel!"

"How about a daycare?" John snickered.

"Oh, Be quiet, John!" Sherlock snapped.

Mrs. Hudson eyes went round as billiards. She gaped.

"My goodness, are you pregnant, Molly?"

Molly's face burned so fiercely, it almost felt cold. "Yes . . . but it's early yet, Mrs. Hudson."

The older woman's hands flew to her face. Her eyes instantly filled with tears. "I'm going to be a Nana!"

Sherlock grumbled something unintelligible. His fingers tapped on the arm of his chair. Then, without warning, he hauled Molly to her feet along with himself.

"Visit's over everyone. John, I'm glad we reconciled. Mrs. Hudson, thanks for the coffee but . . . you both need to get out."

A laughing John picked up his little girl in her car seat whilst Mrs. Hudson kissed Molly on both cheeks.

"You let me know if you need any assistance at all, dear," She reached up and patted Sherlock on his cheek. "And you let me know if there's anything she needs. Ooh, I'm so excited! A wee Holmes. I can hardly stand it."

After they left, the flat was silent as a bank on Sunday. Molly found herself facing an almost unreadable Sherlock Holmes. It was one thing for him to plot and scheme and theorize about things as if he were an actor in a Shakespearean play, it was quite another face life's actualities. She was petrified of what was really going through his mind. Did he want this or would the reality of the situation prove disagreeable?

"Stop it," he mumbled.

She fanned her flushed skin. She was going to cry. In two steps, he stalked up to her and cupped her face in his hands. She steadied her hands on his stomach.

"Stop doubting this, Molly, doubting us. I am sorry that I am not normal, that I rarely . . . no, never say the right thing. I have said this before, but it will be a fact until my dying day. I am a ridiculous man. If I have ever given you the false impression that you were not good enough, believe me, this was never my intention. You are, and always have been, much too good for me despite your atrocious fashion sense. Yes, I have endeavored to keep you at arm's length but only out of the sincere belief that you were better off without me."

She swallowed. It was beyond glorious to hear such praise from him. She felt as if her heart was too large for her chest.

"But w-why did you say what you did? You said you did not want to commit to me . . ."

His cheek twitched. "You misunderstood."

She worried her lip. "But . . ."

"I cannot excuse my behavior. I was wrong to meddle with your contraception but in my mind, it was the most logical course of action. I had waged a battle against my desires for so long that I grew weary. I decided to indulge myself because I knew it was something we both coveted but I did not want you to be saddled with me out of some promises we might make. So, when I said I did not want to give you any assurances, it was not that I did not want to commit to you. Sherrinford had me nearly convinced I was deficient. I-I didn't want to deny you anything, ever, especially the chance for a family. I thought that if I could not provide you with children, you could walk away from me having invested as little as possible."

A tear slid down her cheek. "Oh, Sherlock."

He pressed his lips to hers gently. His hands slid down to pull her more securely against him. A moment later, he lifted his head and stared down at her. His eyes shone with uncertainty yet hope. His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper.

"You must know how I feel. You cannot doubt it now. You are . . . everything, everything to me. Have I not openly admitted it several times? All that talk of sentiment and counting and mattering to me . . . what did it mean if not that I loved you, have always loved you and will love you until my very last breath?"

She thought he could not do anything more to shock her but she was speechless. She knew he loved her, she knew, but hearing him admit it set a memory reel spinning in her head. Images flashed by her mind's eye starting with the slight parting of his lips the first time he ever laid eyes on her. Then there was the apology he issued that one Christmas, the surprise in his eyes when she said she didn't count, the intensity of his expression when he said he needed her to save him from dying . . . all of it, she'd missed every opportunity. She could kick herself.

Tears ran down her cheeks. "And you're okay with us . . . having a baby?"

Sherlock smiled. "If I'd have given into my impulses sooner, Molly, we'd probably be on our second by now. So, we're hardly rushing things. I'd say we have time to make up, actually. On that note, when are you and Tobias moving in here?"

Molly couldn't help but grin in aggravation. "You are impossible, Sherlock Holmes, and why do you insist on calling my cat Tobias? His name is Toby."

Sherlock looked down his nose. "Toby is far too undignified a name for that creature."

"Oh, Lord, are you sure it's not him you're in love with?"

Molly squealed as Sherlock dipped and hefted her into his arms. "No. There is only ever one being I will ever love in that way, Molly, and that is _you_."


	32. Epilogue

He awoke to a familiar electronic drone and the smell of disinfectant. His stomach heaved before he even opened his eyes. He lay there a moment listening to the sounds around him until he heard someone softly clear their throat. His eyes flew open and he turned his head in the direction of the sound.

Molly Hooper sat next to his hospital bed and stared back at him through large, anxious brown eyes. He had never really considered her any sort of great beauty. She was small, tended to shrink into herself and dressed as if she'd pulled random articles of clothing from a bin at a shelter. Right then, though, even with a surgical mask covering her nose and mouth, she was the most beautiful person he had ever seen.

"How are you feeling?" She asked, her voice muffled through the mask.

"Like hell," he muttered.

He knew she smiled by the way her cheeks puffed under her mask.

"Oh? Did you visit there while you were sleeping?" She asked brightly.

He stared for several seconds. She was still such a mystery. Every time he gazed at her, words and images swirled around her like a shifting cloud of ether. Even now, he could not imagine what she would utter next. She was infuriatingly fascinating. He could get lost in her fathomless eyes.

"Take the mask off," he whispered.

His energy was so incredibly low. He felt like a broken reed clinging to its stalk by a sliver of cellulose.

"You're still recovering. I don't want to risk infection."

He flicked his fingers dismissively. "If anyone is going to kill me, Molly Hooper, I want that person to be you."

Molly tilted her head down and tugged at the mask's straps. His heart squeezed in his chest as her gentle smirk appeared. It was an odd, unfamiliar sensation that he did not like one bit.

"Better?" She asked.

"Infinitely," he mumbled.

Silence stretched between them for a few moments until he could no longer suppress the struggling voices in his head.

"How did you do it? How did you convince him?"

Her brows shot up. "Who?"

"You know who."

She smiled secretly to herself. He felt a pang of . . . envy? He wanted to wretch.

"Strangely, that man will do anything for me."

He swallowed. "Which begs the question, why? Why would you want to help me?"

Molly tilted her head to the side. Her eyes constricted as she studied him.

"Ah, well, I've come to learn that I can see things other people cannot, or will not for that matter. You have not always been a good boy but you are not entirely an evil man either, Sherrinford."

He looked away. "You are delusional, Miss Molly. I have killed people. That makes me very evil, indeed. Doesn't it?"

"Oh, yes, certainly if that were the case. You see, I had another look at those records because something in your eyes nagged at me at times. There were plenty of Myeloma candidates in much less advanced states that you could have conducted your little tests on but you chose only the sickest. Only those who were going to die regardless. Potentially, you might have saved their lives had any of your interference actually worked."

Sherrinford coughed and wheezed. "Perhaps I have fooled you once again."

His eyes wandered back to her penetrating gaze. She twitched her brows in amusement.

"Again? You haven't succeeded yet."

He winced and closed his eyes. Every interaction with her painfully rearranged things in his mind as if the sound of her voice alone blew up the neatly organized stacks of information files he'd accumulated.

He groaned. "Why do you torture me so?"

Her voice tickled his ears. "Oh, I don't know. It's not something I've ever tried, but I do believe I'm beginning to like it."

He smiled wanly and drifted then. He was exhausted by just the shear effort of staying awake. He fought to stay conscious.

"I still don't understand," he opened his eyes one last time. "Why, after everything I did to you, would you help save my life?"

Her face steeled. "I am not a person who sits idly by when there is something I can do for a dying man, especially one intimately connected with what will be my family in short order. You have tremendous gifts and I think there's a part yet for you to play in this world."

She stood up and leaned over him. Her eyes flashed and he felt a ripple of fear race through his gut- another odd and uncomfortable experience.

She flicked his nose. "But don't make me regret this, Sherrinford Holmes. You owe me your life and I will find a way to collect if you try to skip out on your debt."


End file.
